


Echoes of Home

by AtomicPen, Dicheallach



Series: I will make it with you [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (not true enemies more like suspicious neighbors), Atomic as Maretus, Dicheallach as Vanora, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Original Character(s), Originally Posted on Tumblr, Tumblr Roleplay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-30
Updated: 2018-08-30
Packaged: 2019-07-04 11:58:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 70,091
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15840831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtomicPen/pseuds/AtomicPen, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dicheallach/pseuds/Dicheallach
Summary: It was dangerous, working so closely with someone. even more dangerous when they knew your past. When the skeletons in the closet get forcibly dragged out by a scheming cousin, Vanora and Maretus must find a way to stop those plans from coming to fruition. Whether the tenuous friendship they've built will survive the ordeal or not--that's another matter entirely.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> a series of tumblr rp over the last several years of Dragon Age OCs and their unfolding story. archived here for ease of reading and for the enjoyment of anyone who wants to read.
> 
> find Atomic's Maretus at [molioanimatra](http://molioanimatra.tumblr.com), and Dicheallach's Vanora at [vintyvanora](http://vintyvanora.tumblr.com)

**i.**

“Move the wall forward four paces! Halt! Second row swords–now!”

Maretus shouts brisk orders like second nature, watching the twenty soldiers in formation before him with eyes sharp as any predator, searching for mistakes, points of weakness, any one soldier foundering.

“Wellin, too slow to cover–now you’ve got a sword in your gut,” he snaps, pointing at a young man in the front line whose shield is slack. “Erys, keep your arm closer to your side so it doesn’t get caught and so you can get in the gaps your comrades are leaving for you in the front to strike at the enemy.”

“Will we ever really have to use this in battle?” someone complains from the middle of the formation–possibly hoping being hidden from sight will mask his identity. Maretus frowns.

“Owen,” he says, immediately identifying the speaker. He does not shout anymore, but his voice is still loud and carrying. “Do you expect to be fighting Tevinter Legionnaires?”

There is a moment’s hesitation before the reply. “… Yes?”

“Good, because you more than likely will. Do you know what they train, day in and day out, when they are not in active combat?” He starts walking toward the formation, eyes intent on the center of it and the soldiers on the edges peel away like old paint as he gets nearer, exposing their fellow who’d spoken up.

“I–no, sir.”

Maretus comes to a stop several spans away from Owen, hands clasped smartly behind his back, gaze unfaltering from the soldier in his scrutiny. “ _This_  is what they train,” he continues, “all their lives. How to work in tandem with their unit, except “unit” means any group of Tevinter Legionnaires, since they all know how to fight like this in their sleep. Their shield gaps are impeccable, their timing is perfect. You will never get a single blade in through their defenses and they will march right over you unless you are just as good as they and know how to combat their tactics. Do you want to be stabbed, half-alive with your guts falling out your side as rows and rows of armored men march over you?” His eyes are as hard as stone.

“No, no sir. Not at all.”

“Then stop complaining and start learning. They’ve had their entire lives living and breathing war, and I have to adequately teach you all in a hair’s breadth of that time.” He turns and starts back to his previous position to drill them again.

After another hour of exercises, Maretus dismisses them, though he really would have liked to push them the rest of the afternoon, but instinct tells him better. Sweating a little himself in mild warmth of the afternoon, Maretus thinks about retiring to his quarters to draft an update report on the soldier’s progress (he’s already decided to leave Owen’s minor infraction out–this wasn’t the Legion, after all, even if he was teaching the same tactics). In the end, he gives in to a whim and changes course toward the tavern nestled in the upper courtyard of Skyhold. A bit of a drink wouldn’t be remiss, he thinks as he settles into a chair near a wall with a cool mug of dark southern beer, after a decent day of drilling.

Sipping on his beer, he allows his thoughts to drift back over the day. He knows he’s harder on the soldiers than they’re used to, and that he frustrates them by never seeming to be pleased by their performance. The beer is a little bitter, but has a tang of spice to it that he finds pleasant. The recruits have come a long way since he started with them three months ago–he oversees ten groups of twenty recruits for Legion-specific tactics, and he knows they are also pushed hard regularly by Commander Cullen and Seeker ( _or is it former? He is never certain._ ) Cassandra, as well. Perhaps a practice skirmish next time, tolet them see how much they’ve actually learned put to use, he muses as he nurses a bit more of his beer. Never bad for morale.

A few familiar voices and words catch his ear, and he glances to one side to see a small handful of Inquisition soldiers who’d been training with him earlier that day sitting together and talking. They don’t seem to notice him, so he quietly sips his beer and doesn’t bring attention to himself.

“… can’t believe we have one of  _them_  here, aren’t they supposed to be the enemy we’re fighting?”

“I mean–we all heard what the Commander said he was: a defector. Inquisitor’s got a Tevene mage, so what’s the difference in a soldier?”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? Defector? Maybe. Spy? Probably. I don’t trust him. He thinks he’s better than we are.”

“Ahh–I think you’re overreacting.”

“Yeah–got your smalls all in a twist ‘cause he knew who you were earlier.”

There is snorting laughter and indignant protests. The conversation shifts topics as they drink more, but their words drive an uneasy pit in Maretus’ gut. He stares at the grain in the wood and wonders if he shouldn’t be moving on soon from this place; he hasn’t been so long in one area, with one group of people for nearly a decade, and the soldiers’ mistrust makes him weigh if he’s overstayed his welcome. He takes another drink of his beer.

After he’s made it halfway through his second tankard, another voice snakes its way through to his attention, and he lifts his eyes to see Vanora talking with the barkeep, chatting pleasantly with him as he fills her drink. When she gets it and turns, he catches her eye and nods to the empty table before him. Immediately understanding his meaning, she weaves her way over to join him.

“Glad to see a friendly face tonight,” he says by way of greeting as she sits, sounding perhaps too grateful to his own ears. At her questioning look, he covertly nods in the direction of the increasingly drunker soldiers he’d overheard before. “I think I pushed them a little too hard today,” he says quietly, fingering a rough spot on the side of his tankard.

* * *

 

It seems that Vanora’s hands are always dirty. Sometimes they’re covered in poultice or dried herbs, and sometimes they are slicked with blood. A few years ago such things would have been inconceivable.  _Her_? Getting her hands dirty? Ridiculous. The heir to House Tiberius wouldn’t so much as becaught brushing her own hair, much less crushing up herbs or  _stitching_.

Yet here she was, hands dirty, but still soft despite the work. At least there is some silver lining. The work with her hands is still gentle, not the sort that leaves callouses and tough skin. That would be truly unacceptable. She still intends to return home, and having rough hands would be another devastating reminder that she was not as she had been before.

No, not the same, but  _better_. 

The thoughts of home are pushed aside. Perhaps it is Maretus joining up, but she yearns for home more and more each day. The redundant tasks of being the head healer have taken their toll. She desires a challenge, something to keep her mind sharp and put her skills to the test. The politics and social ploys of Tevinter are something she misses greatly. The food, the fashion, the opulence, the comfort–she missed it all. No doubt a strange idea to some, missing such a viper’s pit.

Once more she focuses her thoughts, glancing down at her newest charge. He’s bleeding heavily from his leg, a gash running down his calf. Apparently he’d gotten ‘nicked’ on a scouting trip. Nicked indeed. She sets to work without a second thought, and soon enough her hands are filthy–blood and elfroot cake beneath her fingernails, and in the back of her mind she shudders. 

How uncouth.

Luckily the sun sets soon after, granting her a reprieve from the confines of the tower. Her patience for this place wanes with each passing week, but she refuses to give up her work until the Inquisition has dealt with Corypheus. She is, after all, only as good as her word. After tidying up and thoroughly scrubbing her hands, she trades out her apron for a heavier cloak and makes her way down the stairs.

Some of the other healers stay later, others come to check in on the patients throughout the night. But Vanora has the luxury of calling it a day and resting up. Inevitably she finds herself in the tavern after a brief supper. It is always warm there, and while the atmosphere is livelier than she would like after a long day, there are always some quieter places to sit and relax.

She passes a table of soldiers chatting with one another–complaining about the day–and sidles up to the bar. The bartender smiles at her, the two exchanging pleasantries as he fills her tankard. It’s no quality drink, but she’s learned to choke it down for the sake of some extra warmth and calories. From the corner of her eye she catches sight of Maretus, inky black hair slicked back from his face, nursing a tankard of the same beer that filled hers. She smiles at him, thanking the bartender, and turning towards him.

Slipping through the throngs of people she settles herself in the chair beside him. Placing her drink on the table, she arches a brow, a small smile spreading across her features as she glances over at the table of soldiers she had overheard earlier.

“Perfection is only achieved through hard work. One day, when they see  _real_  battle, they will appreciate what you have taught them. They might resent you for it now, butsome day they will see. And, hopefully, it will mean less work for me, hm?”

* * *

 

Her words tug a smile from his mouth, albeit a touch wry as it is. “A wise sentiment… but I have to remember these soldiers haven’t been training since before their voices changed.” He lets out a small breath, staring down into the dark liquid of his drink. “I make no great secret of where I come from, and I know some of them are no fans of me because of that.”

Lifting his tankard to take another drink, his eyes drift back over to the soldiers before returning to her. “But. I will do my best to keep them all from seeing you at the end of the day for anything more than minor injuries,” he says, pushing past the weight of his mood to lighter territory.

“How has the ward been faring? Luckily, I’ve had no call to go there of late, and I hope that you are not seeing as many patients as before?”

Perhaps he should make it a point to visit every so often; Vanora was someone he felt comfortable being around. He wasn’t sure if she’d consider him to be anything as close as ‘friend’, but were he asked, he would have counted her among them. She was good, solid company, and just as he had brightened to see her presence in the tavern, perhaps his could do something similar from an unexpected visit to her healing ward. And, if need be, he was decent enough at field dressing and could at least lend a hand for some simple tasks if she needed it.

* * *

 

“No, they are hardly Tevinter legionnaires. That’s what they call their soldiers, isn’t it?”

She asks as though the has absolutely no idea how the military worked in Tevinter, and to an extent it was true. She understood the general idea and the politics behind it, but beyond that the minutia of ranks lower than the top didn’t much concern her. After all, there was little reason for her to interact with a soldier.

The first sip of the beer is always the worst, her tastebuds almost shrinking back as the liquid hits her tongue. Wine would have been better, but shelearned that the wine there was almost worse than the beer. Her eyebrows lift and she smiles around the edge of the tankard before setting it down.

“Things are quiet. Now and again we get a scout who’s had a bit of a run in, sometimes soldiers. But compared to the chaos after Haven it all seems quite dull and mundane. Sometimes I think I should leave it to one of the healers that I’ve trained and retire…but then I suppose I would be  _quite_  bored. At least you’ve something exciting to do.”

They sit and chat well into the night, going through a few more beers as they catch up on one anothers day. It’s a routine that Vanora finds comforting and enjoyable. Maretus is easy to be around, easy to talk to. He’s familiar and quiet and kind, though the soldiers stuck under him likely don’t see it that way. The juxtaposition between the Maretus at work and the Maretus sitting next to her in the tavern is shocking, but maybe that just makes her like him more. At some point when the people around them are all hammered Vanora yawns, one hand rubbing at her eyes.

“I hate to end this, it’s always nice sitting here and chatting, but I think I might fall asleep right here on this chair if I don’t get up and return to my rooms.”

* * *

 

“Yes, of course,” Maretus agrees. Seeing her try and rub the sleep from her eyes made his own burn with the well-known sensation of staying up later than he should have. He stands, then waits for her to do the same–an ingrained habit that never truly left him at all despite his years away from the pomp and circumstance of the Legion and state dinners he once had to attend. He tells himself it has become merely courtesy now, but even he is unsure just how true that is.

They walk together to the door, where he defers to allow her to exit first. “Always a pleasure,” he says, giving her a shallow bow and resisting the urge to touch his chest with his hand in proper fashion. Straightening, he adds, “Good night.”

Parting ways with one another after a few more words of farewell, Maretus makes his way wearily back to his own quarters. It has been a long day, training beneath the full sun with little breaks–even through the ones he gave the soldiers, he worked one-on-one with some that came to him with questions, or ones that he went to, noting they needed extra work on a particular aspect of defense or attack or another. The end resulted in him not getting much a break himself until the day was completely finished and he was in the tavern. And, of course, once there and chatting with Vanora, he ended up staying much later than originally anticipated. She is easy to talk to, he muses as he walks, and that, as he was initially surprised to find, is not an unwelcome thing.

She has a way of placating his worries, as she did earlier in the evening with the soldiers. He has been on the move for many years now, and the Inquisition is the first time he’s stayed in one place, with one group for very long. Before, it was only ever a few weeks, perhaps just over a month at most that he would linger in one area. Especially in the early years after his flight from Tevinter, Maretus was constantly looking back over his shoulder, itching to move on whenever he got nervous. He is not ashamed of his Tevinter heritage, no–and it would be foolish and nearly impossible to hide the fact that he is  _very_  Tevinter in blood–and so does virtually nothing to disguise the homeland from his tongue or mannerisms. But… even in the South, he knows deserting one of their armies carried no light punishment, and he knows very well he faces death–and possibly worse before–if he is ever captured and taken back to Tevinter. 

Better to be an unknown Tevinter mercenary than the former  _Legator Legarem_ –the commander–of the Perivantium Legion, the second largest in the whole of Tevinter.

Heading toward the hall that leads down to his quarters, Maretus lets his memory wander as his feet move. He has always known what a selfish thing it was for him to leave, especially in the way he did. He was still young, then, and brash. Young and tired of barely being listened to or even truly seen despite his high rank, all because he is  _soporati_. He was tired of arguing against sending his men into missions that were doomed to fail, to recapture escaped slaves, of knowing he would never be seen as good enough no matter how high he rose or what he did–and knowing he would never rise as high as he should, given his skill and knowledge, because of his birth. Most of all, he’d been tired of all the political spheres he was forced to dance in, the games he was forced to be party to, the bigger machine of the Imperium and within the highest nobility, the magisterium, churning forward the same way it always had.

A better person would have stayed and tried to do something about it, he tells himself as he unlocks the door to his rooms and enters into the darkened foyer. A better person would have done all they could, even despite being born  _soporati_. He shakes his head and locks the door behind him. He is not, and has never been, a better person.

Walking toward the lamps in the next room to light them enough to prepare for sleep, a noise that doesn’t belong cuts through Maretus’ awareness like the thin edge of a dagger through silk. He freezes and immediately tenses into a defensive stance, eyes and ears straining to see and hear in the dark. He slows his breathing and lets his hand drift toward the sword at his side. It is only a practice blade from the training earlier, but it could still wound when he needed it to.

The quiet noises of the outside and weak moonlight filter in through the windows of his sitting area. The moon is only a sliver in the sky, a few days away from vanishing completely, and does not adequately light the room for Maretus to properly see if anything is amiss. His heart thuds in his chest and he find himself desperately hoping it was a disgruntled soldier and not some recruited mage come to see him harm because he happened to be of the same homeland as many of their enemies.

The thought of magic seeking him out in the dark tightens his throat.

Forcing himself to swallow past the constriction, Maretus draws in a breath and wraps grateful fingers around the leather grip of the practice sword. He does not draw it, just yet, though every nerve in his body is on alert, telling him there was someone in the room with him.

When he calls out, his voice is not weak as he fears it would be, but strong and demanding. “Whoever you are, show yourself. Do not wait for my blade to find you out.”

Silence answers him.

He waits several moments longer, listening, still searching the dark that his eyes have slowly accustomed to, but even so did not reveal to him much.

Just as he is relaxing, wondering if he really has imagined the whole thing, a quiet rustle of paper breaks through the emptiness of the room from around the corner where his desk sits. All in one motion, he draws the practice sword and advances to the wall, sliding up against it and feeling sweat run down the trench of his spine. Once his breathing is back under some semblance of control–though his heart still pounds with adrenaline–he moves to the open end of the wall and spins around it, blade lifted in a riposting plunge forward against whomever had infiltrated his quarters.

His blade meets the sudden and solid resistance of a wooden column. Jarring his arm enough to make him reel back a step, Maretus fluidly turns the off-balance motion into one that allows him to step near a lamp on the wall. He reaches out with his free hand and turns the knob ferociously, completely igniting the enchanted oil wick, which illuminates the entire side of the room.

Panting from the trepidation that has sunk all the way through him, Maretus quickly searches the lit room, palm sweaty around the leather hilt of his practice sword.

A search of several minutes and fully igniting the rest of the lamps in all rooms of his quarters reveals that he is alone, and when he is satisfied of that fact, he drops the sword onto a flat-topped chest at the foot of his bed and sits on the bed itself, sinking partly into the soft cushion. Raking mildly shaking hands through his hair and tugging at the curls there, he curses softly to himself and his agitation, wiling his adrenaline to calm.

It is only when he takes a deep breath and looks up to the room again that he notices an envelope sitting on top of his desk and the other papers stacked there. He laughs caustically at himself. His “intruder” was probably some messenger–of some sort; he wouldn’t put it past her to somehow use a magical means of dropping off letters to everyone she needed to get letters to, honestly–from Serrah Montilyet, dropping off correspondence or a report request, or some equally mundane thing.

Feeling silly with himself and chalking it up to being tired and too lost in the worries of the past, Maretus stands and goes over to his desk to pick up the letter. When he does, however, he notices the quality of the paper is very different than the usual parchment that Josephine uses. There is no name on it, and the sealing wax has no proper seal–it is just a dab of melted wax to keep it shut.

Curious now, he slides a callused finger beneath the fold and pops open the seal, drawing out the letter within. It is made of the same different parchment material of the envelope, a thicker and rougher pulp than the paper here is made from, with a definitive laid finish to its surface. It is familiar to him somehow, but he cannot place it at first.

He unfolds the letter to see the ink of the words written in it spread in a way that sends him back a decade, though they are in an unknown hand, and it hits him like a punch to his gut why the pulp and construction of the paper is so familiar to him.

It was made in Tevinter.

* * *

 

Vanora’s walk back to the healers tower is a languid one, her body tired from so many long days, her mind foggy with sleep. She loses count of how many times she yawns between the tavern and the door to the tower. The stairs spiral up before her, her own room at the top of the long trek. With one more yawn she starts up the stairs. She could get from the door to her bed with her eyes shut, a fact that makes climbing narrow, tall stairs in the dark a much easier feat. No railing was present to help, only the cold stone walls.

She has no clue of the plan that had been set into motion weeks ago, or the fact that the first strike had already arrived in the room of the person closest to her, nor any ability to comprehend how deeply it will shake her world. So, blissfully unaware of how her world is about to shift, she changes into her nightclothes and slips into bed as quickly as possible, drawing the blankets tightly around herself and promptly falling asleep.

Across the courtyard, tucked away in the barracks, a letter is delivered to a nondescript room. Upon first glance there seems to be nothing remarkable about it, but it is the distinct attempt to be unremarkable that makes it so strange. It’s seal is broken, the letter removed and unfolded by the intended recipient, and with one simple gesture a plan long in the making is set into motion.

_Dear Maretus,_

_You do not know who I am, but I know you. Maretus Varovelo, Legator_

_Legarem of the Perivantium Legion and_ deserter _. Your desertion caused_

_quite the stir in Tevinter; it was not a choice made without severe_

_repercussions should you choose to return. But that is an issue for_

_another time._

_I am Septimus Caecius, son of Julia Valerius and Claudius Augustus,_

_second cousin once removed of someone you may know–Vanora Tiberius._

_Though my sources tell me she is no longer using her full name. It would_

_have been wiser to abandon her name entirely; she has certainly abandoned_

_her family and her duties._

_It has been a painstaking process to track her throughout Thedas, and I have_

_spent the last two years trying to piece together her…_ adventures _. Luckily for_

_me, loyalty to a person only lasts so long when said person has disappeared_

_for years on end. One source led me to another, and, finally, it led me here–to_

_the Inquisition._

_Imagine my absolute joy when I discovered that the wolf in sheep’s clothing_

_was not alone. Though you have not made a great effort in hiding your_

_heritage, much less denying it, my dearest cousin has gone to great lengths_

_to hide her own. I suppose declaring herself Lady Vanora Iolanthe Tiberius,_

_daughter of the great Marcus Tiberius and Aurealia Valerius, heir to her house_

_and her father’s seat in the Magisterium, greatly lauded graduate of the Circle_

_of Vyrantium–well, it would bode ill for her future as the head healer of the_

_Inquisition._

_Each year my dear cousin stays away from home is another blow to the House_

_Tiberius and it’s power. A missing heir, as you know, hardly bodes well for the_

_legacy and continuation of the house. It pains me to write this letter, to ask the_

_help of a stranger, but I need someone to approach her with this grave issue. I_

_would hate to bring her secret to light in any sort of dramatic fashion. Vassals_

_and soldiers sent to retrieve her, though a fashionable and dramatic way out, is_

_hardly the exit she would prefer._

_If I know anything about Vanora, she would rather slip away silently and resume_

_her role here, at home. Her family needs her, and we miss her greatly. While I_

_cannot speak to the reasons that drove her from home, I can say with great_

_certainty that a swift return, as soon as possible, is gravely necessary. With each_

_day the enemies of House Tiberius slip nearer, snatching up the power of a_

_wounded house. She_ must _return home before her home as she knows it_

_disappears forever–all for one selfish woman who was born and bred to take_

_control of the House._

_I leave it to you, Maretus, to see to this matter. Talk to Vanora, feel her out, see_

_if she cannot be reasoned with. It would be a great relief to have her return to_

_us of her own accord–she would be received with relief and great joy._

_Should I receive no reply within the next fortnight I shall put my plan into action._

_Sincerely,_

_Septimus Caecius_


	2. Chapter 2

**ii.**

Four days have passed since he found the unmarked letter on his desk, and he’s read it over no less than a dozen times. The crease lines of the paper are starting to threaten tearing he’s folded and unfolded it so much. Most times after his initial three readings, however, he can’t make it beyond the first two paragraphs.

It makes his chest constrict.

He should have been more careful over the years–that was his biggest mistake. Subterfuge never came easy to him, and he has to admit to himself that it never actually occurred to him to change his name. Maretus too easily trusted that he would be forgotten after enough time, despite his rank, due to his lack of magic, his lack of any kind of noble blood. Nearly a decade has passed since his flight in the dead of night from Tevinter, and he foolishly thought that by this point of time, he would have been written off as dead or lost forever.

But the memory of Tevinter is long.

He should have known, should have expected, should have suspected. Maretus paces the length of his room another time, hands clasped behind his back to keep them still, the sound of his boots echoing off the stone of his floor.

Of course he’d be found out eventually. Of course someone would find him and hold dark threats of his execution–or worse–over his head as blackmail. Despite the gut-wrenching thought of an  _altus_  back in Tevinter knowing who and where he was, there is still some small, tight spot in him that rankles with indignation that even his threat of blackmail was only to get to another. Another this Septimus claims is not only an  _altus_ , but heir to a seat in the Magisterium, an old house that Maretus even recognizes–who this Septimus claims is…  _Vanora_. The head healer of the Inquisition. Someone he has gotten to know and enjoy the company of since his arrival in Haven some time ago.

A sour taste fills his mouth at the thought. It can’t be true. He’d know if Vanora was a mage–he’d spent enough time in their company in the all the military and state meetings that he felt confident he would know if she was one or not.

He stops suddenly in his pacing, amber eyes flicking back to where the letter lay on his desk, back in its envelope.

But, still, a niggling doubt forms in the back of his mind. If this Septimus Caecius really is who he claims to be…

Maretus shakes his head, banishing entertaining such a notion from his head. He would have discovered at this point if Vanora were an altus. If she could use magic, she had plenty of opportunities to use it–not just for show or ease, but to save her own life. The day that they’d traveled down the mountains for her to obtain some hard to procure herbs came to his mind. He’d come back after leaving her alone to her business to get them a horse back to Skyhold, only to find three bandits all against her, and were she a mage, she would have been entirely capable of just blasting them to smears on the road. But she hadn’t.

The letter has to be lies.

He walks over to it, glaring down at it as if it had offended him, and then picks it up. He should just throw it away and think nothing more of it.

But then, a sudden caution stills his hand from crumpling it up. Regardless of if Septimus Caecius really is Vanora’s cousin, he knew the truth about Maretus. Except that isn’t the point of the letter, that is the blade against Maretus’ back, directing him toward Vanora.

Staring at the letter, Maretus lightly fingers the paper with his thumb in thought.

Why Vanora? He’s always believed she is exactly who she seems to be–a simple healer for the Inquisition. One with no magic. But then why a blackmail letter trying to coerce him into getting her to Tevinter? He’d never heard an accent betray her, and she certainly doesn’t look like the typical Tevene–though he knows not everyone is as dark as he. Though he never asked about her past and has always taken her for her word, Maretus is not naive enough to think she might not also be running from something, like he was. Perhaps in her previous life she betrayed someone, or did something to garner their ire. That is the most likely answer.

But then the questions remain–why go through him? Why find out about his past and hold it like a guillotine over his head? Why make up such details as her secretly being altus, of being some prodigal heir to the great house of Tiberius?

This letter lays down several threads in his mind, and he cannot begin to reconcile them, cannot clearly see either the beginnings or ends, or even where they intersect.

Instead of putting the letter back on his desk, or in one of the drawers, he folds it and slips it into a small pouch on his belt, which he fastens shut with an antler toggle.

Perhaps he should try to find his own answers first, and then decide what to do with the threat to himself veiled in the letter.

As much as he dislikes the notion, he settles on his first stop being someone he would never go out of his way to be in the same room as, let alone speak with: Dorian Pavus. An altus would surely know another altus; even if Dorian doesn’t know every other one personally, Maretus feels he should at least have heard of the more prominent or up-and-coming ones. Surely the heir of a house like Tiberius would fall under that purview.

He leaves his quarters and makes his way across the whole of Skyhold, eyes scanning far afield before him that he would have plenty of time to change direction if he caught sight of Vanora. The last thing he wants is to have to make some flimsy excuse to her while he figures out what is going on. Hopefully, Maretus thinks, this will amount to lies about her, to someone playing off his own dislikes and fears in order to get back at her for some unrelated reason.

And then he can find out who learned so much about him and deal with them himself.

******* 

The meeting with Dorian is stiff and awkward and uncomfortable for Maretus, and he can tell Dorian doesn’t feel much better about it.

It confirms his worst fears, however–Dorian has, in fact, heard of the heir to house Tiberius mysteriously vanishing some time ago, though he never knew her personally. When pressed by the mage as to why he’s so interested in some Tevinter house, and doesn’t he look a little bit like a  _most_  Tevene Tevinter–Maretus has to quickly fabricate an excuse of needing to go see to the soldiers and leaves as quickly as he can.

When he exits the hold and gets his feet back on the grass of the courtyard, Maretus realizes his heart is pounding and it has nothing to do with the number of steps he’s just gone up and down. His hands are shaking so much that he grips the hilt of his sword with one until he can find a secluded corner to take several breaths and steady himself. It has been too long since he spoke with such an intensely powerful altus, and the barriers he once had constructed in his mind to shut out his irrational fear of magic are weak from years of disuse and leave him feeling uncomfortably vulnerable.

He leans back against the cool stone wall that supports one of the large stairs that leads up toward the ramparts and closes his eyes, focusing on steadying his breathing and trying not to think of how ashen his face must look to any passersby. The leather of his armor creaks comfortingly as he rests the back of his head against the stone. It will pass momentarily, he knows, but until then hopefully anyone who wonders will simply think him a little ill and leave him be.

His thoughts flit back to the letter and its claims. He still can’t be sure it’s true–just because there  _is_  a missing heir to House Tiberius, doesn’t mean it’s Vanora. Dorian didn’t know the name or any details about the missing altus, and so couldn’t confirm anything more, one way or the other. He will have to find out more. No more mages for a while, though, until he refamiliarizes himself with steeling against the effect they have on his nerves. 

* * *

 

 

For the first two days after Septimus’ letter arriving in Maretus’ room Vanora is entirely oblivious to anything being wrong. Although she barely sees Maretus, they’re both busy. He has troops to train, a never ending task, and a sudden influx of Leliana’s spies take up her time. Apparently there’d been an ambush, one of the men manages to say something about Red Templars getting the drop on them, but beyond that she doesn’t know much of anything. Asking them was out of the question, as most of them were near death when they’d been carried into the tower. She could hear the story once they’d been stabilized and saved.

It turns out that the spies aren’t the only ones who’d been hit. Another wave comes in that evening, a group consisting of scouts and a handful of soldiers. Vanora isn’t sure what they’re all doing together, maybe a scouting party that happened to cross paths with some of the spies, but once again she pushes the questions to the back of her mind, storing them away for later. It is a talent she learned as a child, a way to stay focused on what was important at the present moment without forgetting the other, subtler things that needed to be tended to later on. 

Unfortunately for her, and her wards, the tower is woefully understaffed. Some of the most advanced healers had been sent out to the corners of Thedas, stationed with their apprentices at keeps and strongholds throughout the lands. The soldiers holding the lands the Inquisition, for lack of a better term, owned needed healers much more than the people living in the safety of Skyhold. Usually she didn’t have anything terribly exciting to handle. Anything of note was more often than not a result of an accident building or sparring. The only real consolation is that the tower is well stocked.

It would be trial by fire for the youngest and most inexperienced healers still left with her. Not the way of teaching she preferred, but they’d learn how to deal with dire situations right off the bat. That wasn’t something she could teach, it was something she could only guide–ultimately they had to teach themselves, to learn how they reacted and get over the visceral response. For many of them a room full of men and women slicked with blood made them physically ill. By the time those few had left Vanora was left with but a handful of assistants.

She works throughout the night, not stopping for 48 hours. There is no time for food or sleep, only for the most basic of human needs. By the end of the first day they are out of bandages and turn to any sort of linen they can get their hands on. The healers of weak constitution are given that task–tearing cloth to bandages and keeping the stock of potions and poultices full. Vanora’s hands  _ache_ , fingers stiff from all the stitching and handling of wounds. Her new apprentices learn fast, each of them able to pack and stitch a wound before wrapping it.

When it is finally done there are three casualties, two soldiers and a scout who had been so grievously injured it was a miracle they’d made it back to Skyhold alive. Too tired to clean the bloodied surfaces Vanora leaves it to the servants and the few apprentices who’d had sleep and were able to help. Vanora is barely able to strip off her ruined garments before she collapses into bed, too tired to register that she’s freezing and still a mess.

In the morning she deals with the aftermath. The ruined clothes are bundled up in her bloodied sheets. She’ll have to take a long bath to get off the residual blood and poultice that spots her skin. There must be some in her hair as well, caked on her temples where she’d pushed back wayward strands. Miraculously one of the healers who’d managed to steel herself and stay her course knocks on Vanora’s door. While Vanora dresses in her other gown the young woman explains that their wards had made it through the night. Despite Vanora’s insistence that she was fine, the woman took the mess of laundry out of Vanora’s hands and promised to have it all cleaned up. 

Within the next few hours Vanora checks on all her patients and manages to clean herself off properly. The bath refreshes her and wakes her up; she feels human again. She sets up a simple schedule to ensure there is always someone in the tower to check on their patients. Another hour, then two, slip by. Most of the men and women are stabilized enough that they don’t need constant observation; only two of them need to be checked once or twice an hour. Satisfied that things are as good as they can be in the tower, she seeks out food. Her stomach, quiet prior to the realization that it’s been too long since she’d eaten last, finally makes its discomfort known. The rumbling in her belly accompanies a sharp pang. It’s a reminder that she is in fact human, and that food is necessary for life.

The tavern is, as always, filled with people. Regardless of the hour there is always  _someone_  drinking. The bar is lined with people chatting, the tables hosting a scattered group of people eating lunch. She joins them, finding a quiet corner to eat in peace. With all the chaos of the past two days the quiet rumble of people chatting on the other side of the room is a welcome sound. It’s only as she’s finishing up her lunch that she realizes she hasn’t seen Maretus anywhere. Granted, she hadn’t exactly been out and about, but surely she would have passed him by now. Vanora chalks it all up to bad timing. Her schedule had been thrown off kilter, and they didn’t always cross paths at lunch. Often he was still busy with the recruits, or she wrapped up in her work. 

But she doesn’t see him at dinner either.

When the next day passes it marks four days without so much as a glimpse of the man. Bad timing was one thing, but not seeing him, even in passing, for a whole day? It seemed a little suspicious. Surely he wasn’t  _avoiding_  her? Had her disappearance for those two chaotic days suggested that she was upset with him in some way? Vanora hadn’t even thought to tell him that she was inundated with work. Friends weren’t something that she was entirely good at. Those few she had were casual ones, nobody who would notice her absence for a few days. But Maretus? She saw him every day. They ate together, talked together. 

No, she decided, it was more than just chance that was keeping him away.

Determined to find out what was going on, Vanora enlists the help of one of the children in Skyhold. He’s young, and apparently very fond of her after she’d helped him get over a nasty bout of pneumonia. When she asks him to keep an eye out for her friend, tall with golden skin and dark hair, a soldier, he enthusiastically assures her that he’ll find him for her. Any time the boy tracks her down Vanora is moments too late, Maretus nowhere in sight. Vanora tells him he doesn’t have to look for her friend anymore, that he’s been  _very_  helpful, and the boy takes off, grinning as he returns to play with his friends.

Imagine her surprise when she runs into Maretus entirely by accident.

A master of astute observation Vanora catches sight of his form leaned up against a wall. She’s only passing by, planning to check on her patients. They’re all improving, but it never hurt to double, or triple, check. The corner is shadowed, and most people would have passed right on by. But not Vanora. Slowing to a stop she looks him over before he can realize she’s standing here. He doesn’t look well, leaning against the wall with his head tipped back. Another moment of observation, however, makes her wonder if whatever is bothering him isn’t physical. If he’d been ill,  _really_  ill, he would have sought her out. She’d chided him enough times that he wouldn’t have just ignored it…would he? Perhaps she’d misjudged everything.

“Maretus? Are you alright?”

Vanora’s voice breaks the quiet, interrupting the gentle sounds of wind and distant voices. She sounds cautious, hesitant almost, voice edged in concern, unsure why on earth he’d been so scarce. It is most obviously not a tone of voice that she’s used around the man before. She hadn’t had a reason to until now.

* * *

 

Her voice, subdued and worried, lances straight into his chest out of the muffled quiet of listening to his breath. His eyes snaps open and he twitches so suddenly he smacks his head back on the stone. Wincing, embarrassed, Maretus focuses on her, even as he pushes off the wall and straightens, almost to attention.

Despite the directness of it, her question is lost to him, being so distracted and almost in the meditative state of trying to calm down. He’d only been standing there for a few minutes before she found him–of course, the last person he wanted finding him while he was in such a disarray.

That is an unfair thought, and he regrets it the moment it crosses his mind. She’s not done anything wrong, and he has no evidence of anything being out of the ordinary. Dorian has him shaken for more than one reason, not the least of all being that it was, in hindsight, not one of his better ideas to go ask the resident prominent altus of the Inquisition something so specific about Tevinter as to draw attention to himself from someone he absolutely did not want paying attention to him. He, of course, also knows of House Pavus, but he isn’t certain Dorian  _wouldn’t_  know of him.

But Vanora, she does the opposite of shake him, and his agitation is making him unfair. He feels bad; of course he doesn’t mistrust her, but the letter has him completely distracted from his usual routine–something he is normally very reliable on–and it suddenly occurs to him that she must be worried about his absence. It became, rather subtly, their habit to share at least their dinner meals with one another, and he’d been scarce since he’d received the letter. Not a small portion of him cringes internally knowing that his absence was intentional on his part.

The tone in which Vanora speaks is one he hasn’t ever heard from her before–at least not to him. The closest he can recall hearing that much note of concern fraying the edges of her words is to patients, but even then it isn’t quite the same. Realizing what she asked him was a question and he has no idea what it is, he feels heat rush back into his cheeks and finds he can’t meet her eyes for once.

“I… I’m sorry. Forgive me, I was–I was thinking. What did you say?”

* * *

 

Vanora’s eyes widen as Maretus practically jumps out of his skin, smacking his head against the stone wall behind him as though he’d forgotten it was there. It’s not something he would ever do; he’s much too composed and in control of himself. The fact that he suddenly seems so distracted, so out of touch with reality, is alarming. Had he honestly been so lost in his own thoughts that he’d been oblivious to the world around him? If so…they were certainly not the average, run of the mill thoughts occupying his time.

When he doesn’t reply at first, seemingly collecting his thoughts, the uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach intensifies. What on earth  _was_  wrong with him? He didn’t look like he was ill, just…extremely flustered and confused. She gives his head a cursory glance, wondering if the collision with the wall had really hurt him, but it appears that he is physically fine.

After a moment of collecting himself, or several, he manages to form words. They aren’t particularly coherent and make it clear that he has indeed been deep in his own thoughts. It’s not that Vanora finds the idea of him deeply pondering something far fetched, he wasn’t an idiot, but the fact that he’s so trapped in his own head that he is physically startled back to reality is what worries her the most.

He doesn’t even meet her eyes, his reply barely tumbling out of his mouth as he tries to form one coherent sentence. Vanora frowns, concern only growing stronger when he can’t seem to manage answering a simple question. What  _was_  he thinking about? It seemed suspicious, but for now she was just worried about him.

“I asked if you’re alright. You seem…off.”

It’s the nicest way she can explain how strange the behavior is without calling out every single abnormality in his behavior.

* * *

 

He nods, makes himself take a breath and look up at her. It’s not that he feels ashamed, that he wouldn’t be able to meet her eye, but that he fears she will be able to see right through him, and know that he was going behind her back, asking about what could potentially a past she’s worked to completely hide, instead of going right to her. He feels that she would be able to read him as well as a book.

No small part of him wonders if he should do just that, just be straight and ask her about it. But that would be even more foolish than seeking out Dorian to ask, and Maretus knows this without a doubt. If the letter is true, and she is the missing heir, she has to be missing of her own choice, and he suspects she wouldn’t look kindly on the fact that he knows about her now. If it isn’t true, she might be offended he was even putting mildly curious stock in that kind of nonsense. No. He has to try and find out more first, try and validate or invalidate the letter somehow. Then he will figure out what to do.

“Forgive me–I am fine. Just… worried about… too much, I suppose.” He feels a strange, unpleasant twisting in his gut as he puts a brief, rueful smile on for her. “Sometimes I forget all that we face, but other times it… I fear it threatens to overwhelm me.”

It isn’t a lie, not really–he really does feel overwhelmed if he stops to allow himself to think of the greater goal the Inquisition had, which is why he hardly ever lingers on it. But, he knows it’s not the truth he should be saying. It’s not the answer she’s looking for, the answer he would be giving her if he were really being honest. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth to swallow the right words, and an odd knot tightens in his chest.

“Have you eaten yet?” he asks, abruptly changing the subject. “I have not yet today, and if you are free…?”

His stomach feels too wrung up right now to be hungry without a plate of hot food before him, but he hasn’t eaten since some forgotten time the day before, as he’s been mechanically taking his meals since the letter’s appearance. And he feels completely torn between enjoying her company and realizing he’s missed it these past four days, and feeling a new mantle of guilt for not divulging what is truly weighing on his mind.

If he can’t be completely honest with her just yet, before he finds out more to decide one way or the other how to handle it, he can at least not worry her more than he already has.

* * *

 

The answer is entirely logical. When she stopped and thought about it too long it was enough to send her packing. Everyone probably felt that way. The Inquisition was a necessity, a bastion against the threat of Corypheus. It would be easy for her to turn her back, to slip back to Tevinter and her life beyond the walls of Skyhold. She’d been away longer than she’d ever meant to, distracted by the world and always finding something that caught her attention for just a while longer. There was plenty that she had to do there, even if there was a potentially ancient Magister who was hell bent on destroying the world as they knew it.

It wasn’t as though people in the South had a favorable view of Tevinter to begin with. Hell, most people didn’t think well of her country and countrymen…not that she could particularly blame them. Home was a nest of vipers, particularly when one was at the top of the food chain so to speak. It was all of Orlais’ danger but amplified. They claimed they played to the death, but it wasn’t nearly as cutthroat as home.

Pushing the thoughts away, frown still intact, Vanora keeps herself from shaking her head. Although she doesn’t disbelieve that he is afraid of what lay ahead of them, of how dangerous this all is, she isn’t convinced that it’s what’s bothering him so much. There’s something about his eyes, the half heartedness of his expression, that makes her certain something else is at play. But  _what_? If he is in any way upset about her disappearance the two days she was suffocated by her work he doesn’t give her any indication. Indeed, he suggests sharing a meal.

Clearly he’s trying to change the subject, another reason to be suspicious of what’s going on in his head. He’d never been this out of it, this lost in his head, even when they were talking about the great task laid before the Inquisition. The frown ebbs away as he speaks, replaced by her usual calm, unflappable look. Not even an attempt to smile and pretend that everything is fine, just a little turn at the edge of her mouth.

“No, I have been busy these past days. It is hard to remember food when there are lives at stake and in your care.”

Vaguely uncomfortable with the entire situation and still very much suspicious with it all she shifts, smoothing her hands over her dress, an unconscious gesture that cropped up when she was waiting or uncomfortable in some way shape or form.

“I’m sure Mary still has something left over from lunch. It’s too early for dinner.”

* * *

 

Immediately, he knows she doesn’t believe him. He wouldn’t believe himself, either, if he were she, so he can’t blame her. He also knows he’s overstepped in his offer, but is surprised at the sudden jolt of hurt he feels when she turns it down. There is a momentary flicker of dismay that crosses his face, but then it passes.

By now he’s had enough time to recompose himself–the fact that it is her sudden presence that helped him calm down more quickly he brushes to the back of his mind. He matches her outward demeanor, a very neutral expression falling back into place, and he gives her a shallow bow–more shallow than he’s ever given her before.

“Of course,” he says coolly, though it’s unclear whether he’s referring specifically to her being busy these past few days or her dismissal of his offer, or both. “I will not intrude on your business, then. Until another time.”

He forgets to stop himself from touching his chest lightly in proper Legionnaire fashion.  Maretus is the first to leave, and he tries not to feel her eyes on his back as he goes. That is the most uncomfortable he has felt in many years, and certainly the most he’s ever felt around her–for the first time. Even the awkwardness of being cramped in a small crevice with her for several spans’ worth of time wasn’t anywhere near as a discomfort as this conversation just was.

The knot in his stomach doesn’t dissipate the further away he walks; if anything, it grows worse.

It all stems back to the letter, and his growing worry over it. The more he thinks about it as he walks away from Vanora, the more he wonders if–worries that–it is true. It seems such an specific accusation to make of her, and he knows for fact that however the letter writer found out his information, what he had threatened Maretus with is painfully true.

He had to get to the bottom of this quickly, he resolves, so things could go back to normal with Vanora. He didn’t like this disruption in their routine, didn’t like how he felt about keeping things from her, didn’t like the idea that she may be all those things those letter said she was. He’ll talk to one of the Spymaster’s scouts, see if they don’t know anything–the trick would be doing it more subtly than before. Maretus sighs, irritated.

It aggravates him–he is most assuredly not built for this kind of sneaking around, trying to collect information without letting the other person know. Growing angry at the situation and himself, he turns toward the sparring grounds to work off his frustration with a sword in his hand.

* * *

 

The change in his expression makes Vanora realize how careless she had been with her words. She hadn’t  _meant_  to turn him down flat; indeed, she hadn’t eaten all day. The invitation had simply been a reminder that, no, she’d forgotten food. Again. But perhaps it is all for the best. Things are suddenly so…  _strange_. The conversation is awkward enough, and makes her feel a bit ill to her stomach. Maker forbid their meal together would be as bad. Still, she feels bad that she’d not made herself clearer. Late lunch would have been a welcome thing, and perhaps helped to ease the strangeness between them. Now she wonders if it will just make things worse. Her thoughts shift forward to dinner and her stomach clenches again. She hadn’t eaten alone in weeks…months maybe. It is an alarming realization just how pleasantly accustomed she’d gotten to spending so much time with Maretus.

Vanora’s lips part, the woman about to explain that she had chosen her words poorly, but Maretus has already bowed. It’s shallow and quick, an indication to her that he’d prefer to get out of her presence as soon as possible. But it isn’t his eagerness to leave that gives her pause, it’s the gesture that follows the bow. A hand to the chest after a bow was most certainly not a Ferelden custom. Not even a common Northern one. She certainly hadn’t seen it in Antiva or Neverra. But it is so familiar. The frustration of knowing and yet not knowing immediately makes her feel worse. Visceral reactions like this weren’t common for her, and it’s an unpleasant reminder that he’s clearly gotten under her skin, endeared even, without her consciously realizing it.

He’s nearly halfway to the sparring area when it hits her. She  _has_  seen the gesture before, but not since she was home. It had been some formal dinner, a party thrown by a relative of the Archon. There had been all the appropriate Magisters and powerful people, but that had also included some of the most powerful men in the Tevinter Legion. Suddenly she can recall the entire interaction as vividly as if she were there–one of the younger generals had been speaking to her, no doubt nosing about for information on one of the up and coming altus in the Imperium. He’d been pleasant enough to talk to, but inevitably there was someone more important for Vanora to chat up. When she’d excused herself he’d done exactly what Maretus had done to her. Granted, it was much more formal, the bow deeper, but the hand to his chest was something that she’d seen throughout the night. Everyone in the military had done it, no matter their rank.

Instantly her blood runs cold. 

Maretus… a Tevinter legionnaire? It wasn’t common to see them this far South. In fact, it wasn’t common to see them outside of Tevinter at all; not unless they were in the North dealing with the Qunari. Vanora knew enough about the military that it wasn’t easy to just  _leave_. Much less do so and come so far South. Unless the reason Maretus was so far from home was because he had done just that. Vanora is certain that she’s never felt so physically ill over something like this in her life, and she resolves to try and put it from her mind. There were still people under her care, and the two who were wounded the worst still hadn’t come around.

Eager to do something to take her mind off what a mess she’d just stepped into, Vanora heads to the tower post haste. It isn’t until one of the healers demands that she leave to get food that she finally goes back outside. She isn’t used to being worried about running into Maretus. Though she is equal parts intrigued and worried, she isn’t sure how to handle another interaction while she’s still trying to process everything. Of course, when one was used to sitting in the exact same spot for every meal without change, it was hard to break the habit.

The world seemed keen on making things challenging. Dinner in hand she turned towards the tables. Lost in her own thoughts, trying to make heads or tails of it all, she barely registers that she’s set her plate down at the usual table…and that the table was occupied. Blinking at the familiar face of Maretus, Vanora nearly drops her plate the rest of the way.

“Maretus.”

She’s about to apologize for sidling up to the table without thinking, but realizes it would just make things stranger. Stranger is the last thing she needs today.

“I’m sorry about earlier, I was a bit careless with my words. I  _meant_  to say that I hadn’t eaten either, and that there was probably still enough food for the both of us here. May I sit?”

* * *

 

The rest of the day goes no better for Maretus than it had started. Dulled practice sword in his hand on the training grounds, he ends up taking more bruises than serving them. He fights poorly–the worst he has in years; if he’d fought like that when he was still working as a traveling guard-mercenary, he would never had lived long enough to reach the Frostbacks. For once he’s thankful that both the Commander and Seeker are absent that day–they might reconsider his position training as may troops as he does if they saw how he was fighting.

As it was, a few of the soldiers he is on closer terms with note that he seems distracted, and on a normal day, he might have turned it into a training exercise, but he doesn’t have it in him today to do so. He says something about every bad day of training needs to equal a better day on the field in truth, but his heart isn’t quite in it.

The sun is low on the horizon by the time the soldiers start trailing off for their evenings, leaving Maretus behind to pick up. He debates spending more time there to organize and clean, but the weapons and armor are already in good order, and he knows cleaning will just free up his mind to wander and that was what he is trying to avoid it doing.

A rumble makes its way through his stomach, reminding him he hadn’t eaten in a full day and a half’s length, and he sighs, raking a hand through his hair. He feels a strange wetness, and lowers his hand to discover his knuckles raw and running with blood, some of which has now gotten in his hair.

“A fitting addition,” he grouses to the empty practice armory, then moves to one of the tables, shuffling things around and looking for a clean bandage.

All he finds is a torn scrap of cloth too small to wrap around his hand even once, but he soaks it in water and at least cleans most of the dirt out of the wounds. The blood is starting to stem by the time he finishes and tucks the bloodied cloth into a back pouch on his belt to launder later.

His stomach growls again, more urgently this time, and so he relents to the demands of his body and makes his way over to the inn. As he walks, he at least can’t concentrate on much else other than his hunger, the scent of cooking food reaching him from across the courtyard just as the tavern comes into sight and spurring him on more quickly. There is a dull pain in his right thigh that doesn’t bother him much now, but that experience tells him will turn into a deep bruise and hurt for at least a handful of days once it shows. But, it is of no matter now, and he makes his way with no problem into the tavern for a plate and his usual seat.

He is distracted by eating for the first time in a day and half that he doesn’t notice when another person walks up to his table, and if he had, with how he took her statement of a late lunch waiting for her earlier, he wouldn’t have expected them to be Vanora.

When there is a sudden clatter of plates and his name falling startled from her lips, Maretus jumps, the bone in his hand falling to the plate, unaware paper-thin rivulets of blood were still trailing down from his knuckles.

He certainly doesn’t expect an apology to follow, and he feels a sharp pang of guilt and remorse for his quick anger and assumption before–sharper than he expects. The corners of his mouth turn down at her request, not because he is angry at her, but because he is inexplicably upset she feels she has to ask to do such a thing.

“Of course–please sit. This is just as much your table as mine, after all.” He motions with a hand, then rests it on the table beside his own plate. “I… should apologize myself. I was not at my best earlier today, and I fear I was unnecessarily rude.” That eased some of the pang a little, and he was pleased to feel the tightness in his chest lessen a few notches. Or maybe perhaps the exertion from sparring as hard as he did earlier was settling in and crowding out any room for stress with the simple tiredness it brought.

* * *

 

_This is just as much your table as mine, after all._

It’s such a silly thing, ‘their table,’ when they clearly have no  _real_  claim on it. Still, it’s unoccupied every time they turn up for dinner, so it seems that they may as well have officially deemed it their own.  _Their_. Despite how petty and ridiculous the statement is Vanora finds herself smiling faintly, feeling embarrassingly relieved that he hadn’t suddenly felt full and had some other thing to attend to. After how their chat earlier that day had gone…well, she almost expected him to disappear or spurn her in some way.

A quiet voice in the back of her head sneers,  _pathetic_. If she were in Tevinter it would be pathetic; emotional attachment only had one outcome–being hurt. It was a dangerous distraction that someone of her status couldn’t be distracted by. But she  _isn’t_  in Tevinter, so she can afford to be a tiny bit reckless. After all, it doesn’t seem like she’s had much choice in the attachment part. The sharp sting of one short encounter had made it crystal clear that she was in deeper than she’d consciously realized.

Shifting herself over, arms pushing her skirts out of her way, she sat down beside him. She took a moment to push her plate and utensils in front of her, as they were almost at the edge of the table. Once she’s content with the immediate area Vanora glances over to Maretus as he speaks. She’s opted for a small dinner–just bread and cheese. With all the blood she’s been dealing with and how little she’s been eating a large meal would only make her feel ill. Chewing on a chunk of her bread she nods in reply to his apology. It feels so strange to be apologizing here, but it’s been such an odd day…and if her gut feeling is right, the strangeness wouldn’t end today.

But for this evening she is perfectly content to ignore it all and eat with Maretus. Looking over at him she smiles and shrugs in response to his apology.

“It seems that both of us have had a trying few days. At least we can sit, eat, and try to unwind a bit, hm?”

Vanora isn’t sure how long the unwinding will take, or if things will be the same when she wakes up tomorrow morning. She hopes that it will be better, that Maretus will be less trapped in his own head…and that she can forget the way he touched his hand to his chest when he bowed. Pushing the thought back as soon as it enter her head, she reaches for her bread again.

She’s already torn another chunk off her bread when she catches the sight of red. Turning her head, eyes fixating immediately on Maretus’ knuckles, her smile fades into a frown.  _This_  is something she can handle, something that hopefully won’t lead them back into the realm of potentially awkward conversation.

“Maretus, what on earth did you do to your poor hands?”

Before she can think better of it she’s forsaken her bread and reached across the table. Lifting up the hand closest to her she turns it between both her hands, brows crinkling together as she looked at his knuckles.

“Don’t tell me you decided to let the soldiers beat you up in the name of some morale boosting exercise. You haven’t even  _wrapped_  them. Honestly,  _soldiers_. One minute it’s ‘just a scratch’ and the next you’re in a bed in the tower nearly dead.”

She’s certain that she’s said nearly the same thing to him. In fact she remembers it distinctly–walking into his room when he was absent from dinner, only to find him just about passed out in his bath from blood loss. Vanora assumed that he would have learned from that experience…at least this was very minor. Probably happened plenty of times in his life. More than plenty if he had been part of the Legion…

Once again she forces that thought away, sighing dramatically as she turns his hand over once more, finger running over the tips of his fingers as she adjusts her head to see the cuts better.

“I’m wrapping those for you when we’re done. And the other hand–I doubt you were hitting things with one hand.”

* * *

 

He’s about to protest her outburst of concern when she reaches for his hand, but she grasps hold of it before he can get anything out.

Her fingers are cool and smooth against his own, and a sudden and strange mixture of feelings run through him before he forcibly settles them on mild embarrassment. In all his years of training and sustaining wounds, he’s never been… fussed over–or at–quite like this.

“It’s nothing out of the ordinary, I assure you,” he says, fidgeting a little but not drawing back his hand from hers. He decides not to tell her it was his own distractedness and frustration and not an intentional–how did she put it?–morale boosting exercise he conjured up. Instead, a wry twist of his mouth echoes something like a self-deprecating smile. 

“Comes with the territory of swordplay–one gets quite a collection of nicks and cuts on the hands over the years.” And he does–little silvered scars that decorate his fingers and hand down to the wrist. “But unfortunately, I fear I was deflecting far more than hitting today.” His eyes shift from his bloodied knuckles up to her, watching her study the wounds.

He means to tell her that she doesn’t have to wrap them–they have been decently cleaned, after all, and he was sure the bleeding would stop entirely soon enough–but somehow the words don’t quite make it out of his mouth. It’s… nice the way she handles his hand, and chides him for being careless, and the heavy accusations of the letter he’d received vanish momentarily from his mind. It is easy to be relaxed around her, her mannerisms familiar by this point, and her presence regular and welcome. He finds it difficult to imagine her as the heir to such an old and influential house as the letter claimed her to be.

And then the moment cracks as the thought creeps back into his mind, but he stuffs it quickly. This woman before him couldn’t be an altus. There was no way.

But a persistent, niggling doubt worms its way through– _whomever Septimus really is, he is right about you, and he could also be telling the truth about her. You have to find out. You have to be sure._

He does his best to push it to the back of his mind for at least as long as they share their meal this evening, and only when she look up from his knuckles does he realize he’s been staring at her all this while.

Swallowing past a mildly dry mouth, he says, “I promise it won’t land me passed out in a tub this time.”

* * *

 

It’s so much  _easier_  this way, to forget all the discomfort of their earlier interaction, to fall into a familiar routine. He fidgets as she turns his hand over in her own, making sure they really are  _just_  cuts. She’s never noticed all the tiny little scars, all the calluses, that shape his hands. Of course his hands are rough, he’s a soldier not a tailor, but she’s never had reason to handle them. It wasn’t as though they wandered around hand in hand. The notion sends a strange feeling through her stomach and bubbling up into her chest.

Glancing up as he points out that busted up knuckles aren’t exactly uncommon, she rolls her eyes in dismissal, glad to have reason to pull herself out of her own head. Just because they were common didn’t mean he was getting away without her attention. That is, after all, her job. Even if it really  _is_  a minor injury, barely worthy of note. It would heal just fine on it’s own within the week. It looked like he’d cleaned it out too.

Distracted again by his hands, and perhaps not entirely willing to meet his gaze when he goes silent, worried that the uncomfortable silence might have returned, she turns the hand over in hers again. Trying not to get distracted pondering the texture of his skin, she focuses instead on the scars. They’re tiny, littering his skin like little silver stars, shining subtly in the light. One thumb runs gently over the scar nearest to her fingers before she realizes what she’s doing. It takes a great deal of control to not instantly drop his hand like a hot coal. She acts as though it hadn’t happened, focusing instead on his final comment.

That particular interaction was one that she is sure she won’t forget. When she’s old and wrinkly she’ll likely still be able to recall the tale. She snerks, rolling her eyes again, though this time there is a smirk on her lips.

“You shall never live that down. You should have heard the healers giggling, like a bunch of little girls. Be glad you weren’t conscious. I had to haul you out of that bathtub myself, wrap up that wound, wrap  _you_  for the sake of decency, and get one of the soldiers to help carry you to the tower.”

* * *

 

An inadvertent breath hitches at her attention to his old scars, but only for the barest moment. She is a healer, one of the best he’s known and had caring for him, so he’s sure it is purely medical fascination. Or frustration–he imagines seeing the same patients over and over had to be frustrating to see so many potentials for one’s hard work keeping them alive be pushed to the limit. Still, his hand is warm where her thumb had been, and a part tucked very quietly away in the back of his mind notes the pleasant contrast of her paler fingers against his.

The memory of waking up in a completely different place than he had been before, bandaged up with a concerned and angry Vanora hovering nearby him gives him much welcomed breathing room to concentrate on something other than any possibilities about her past, or more immediately, her hands on his own. In fact, her reaction shifts something in the bottom hollow of his chest that is so unexpected that a brief chuckle follows in the wake of her reminiscent teasing.

It is only embarrassing in hindsight; he remembers the relieved exasperation in her voice when he finally woke and she scolded him for brushing off a life-threatening wound as something not worth going to her about. Only after coercing a promise from him that he’d never do something like that again did she relent and leave him in the hands of one of her capable assistants to see to other patients. There is a soft fondness touching the edges of his voice when he speaks again.

“I think I’m rather glad I wasn’t conscious for that bit, and I thank the healers for taking my, ah, indisposed state in stride.” He pauses. “And you, for no disparaging comments about having to haul me out of my own tub completely naked.”

* * *

 

The chuckle that he lets out, though brief, immediately makes her smile. A rush of something hits her straight in the chest, and it feels a little bit like adrenaline and pride and something she can’t name. The chuckle sounds  _genuine_ , not those half laughs that they often shared when talking about something vaguely amusing. So to hear a real chuckle, especially in the midst of everything happening, is a relief. She doesn’t even remember that she’s still holding his hand.

_Now_  the story seems funny, when it can be summed up so easily, and she can focus on how embarrassing and ridiculous it was getting him out of a tub, dressing him, and then handling his wounds on top of it all. In reality, it had been a much less pleasant experience, and she’d likely remember it more so for that than for it’s humor factor…though the latter certainly didn’t hurt. The jolt of panic she’d felt, realizing that he was just about drowning in his own blood, was something she’d very much prefer to avoid feeling again. It had been a tense, adrenaline filled, nerve fraying handful of minutes trying to get him out of that tub. He wasn’t exactly light weight. Nevermind trying to find him clothes and something to use as a bandage. It wasn’t until she’d bandaged him up and he’d finally come to that she’d been able to breathe without her chest constricting and her nerves making her hands shake ever so slightly.

“Do you have any idea how difficult it was trying to find a pair of pants?  _Trousers_ , Maretus. For how organized your room was, it was remarkably challenging finding something so simple.”

Vanora huffs, feigning a more authentic irritation as she shakes her head.

” _And_ , I ruined one of my dresses for you. It was a very nice shade of green, and then I had to tear the skirt into chunks so I could stop your leg from bleeding you dry. The things I do. Not to mention nearly breaking my back trying to move you around. All slippery and covered in blood; all that fighting makes you much too hard to carry.”

Sighing dramatically, she realizes that she’s still holding his hand. Suddenly rather self conscious about it she shakes her head and glances down at the hand one last time.

“I suppose I ought to be grateful that this is the worst injury I’ve seen on you since then.”

Content that she’d avoided having to awkwardly set his hand down and hope he didn’t notice, she sets his hand back on the table.

* * *

 

The longer their conversation goes on, the more normal and comfortable it feels. His anxiety and the constricting crush that threatened to overtake him earlier after speaking with Dorian are all but gone, replaced by the much better slow-creeping soreness of his training, and the former seem very far away from this familiar worn table in the tavern. It makes it all the easier to push whatever investigations he will have to do away for the moment–they could wait until tomorrow, he is sure.

A rueful smile alights on his mouth. “It  _was_  organized–just only to me, evidently. Though, in light of that incident, I have made sure to keep a spare set of clothing readily accessible,” he admits to her. “Far be it for me to make my healer’s job more difficult than need be.”

Eyes meeting hers as she huffs at him, he finds he can recall the dress to which she’s referring clearly. Despite knowing she’s only giving him good-natured grief, Maretus  wonders if he would be able to locate one of a similar color to replace it. It is only fair, he tells himself, for saving his life. He hadn’t realized it was so ruined, having no recollection of anything she did before he woke in the healing tower’s bed, or he would have sought to find her a new one sooner. The twinge of guilt isn’t much a surprise to him, though the singular strong desire to do whatever he could to find a similar dress for her does.

Unsure of quite what to think of that, Maretus tucks it back and away.

She releases his hand and it unconsciously curls inward a little, almost as if it were trying to hold on to the feeling of it in both of hers, still. He looks down at the red on his knuckles, staining and tracing the almost cross-hatched texture of his knuckles. It seems to not be actively bleeding any longer, but he decides if she wants to make sure it’s properly cleaned, he wouldn’t argue with her. She is the expert on such things, after all, even though he knows more than enough field dressing that it would be just fine. There was no harm in her being satisfied he wouldn’t lose any fingers to infection.

“Well,” he says quietly, clearing his throat gently and then lifting his eyes, if not his chin, to look meet her gaze again. “I did promise you I’d be more careful.”

* * *

 

The chest  _was_  quite organized, and perhaps it was her panicked state, but she couldn’t find those trousers for the life of her. She thought that she’d just about pulled every item of clothing out of the chest, but clearly she’d missed the one item she was looking for. The fact that he had set aside a change of clothes just in case she needed access to them again is alarmingly endearing, pulling her lips up into a gentle smile as she sighs quietly.

“That’s very kind of you, but let’s not repeat that, hm? We’ll keep the need for spare clothes for very special occasions.”

It’s only after she’s said it that she realizes how horrible the response sounds, what it seems to imply upon first hearing it. The warm feeling in her chest is immediately doused in cold water as she grasps desperately for some way to fix what she’s said. Although her eyes widen and the smile disappears, she manages not to panic externally.

“ _Ah_ …something like getting caught in a deluge and needing spare clothes. As you say, you did promise no more life threatening injuries. Or at least not to  _hide_  said life threatening injuries. Quite the weight of my chest.”

Vanora cannot remember the last time she’d said something so carelessly, something so blatantly thoughtless and embarrassing.  _Stupid girl, losing your touch are you_? The thought gets shoved away and she shakes her head in an attempt to clear her mind. Even though it was true that she was grateful for his promise, it hardly made up for her blunder.

Without his hand in hers she’s liable to fidget, so, instead, she reaches back for her bread. Tearing another chunk of the bread off, she tries very hard to pretend the entire interaction has been completely normal.

“But even I must concede that your knuckles look as though they’ll be perfectly fine. You’ve obviously cleaned them, and there’s nothing too rough about them. They’ve even stopped bleeding. So I think I can safely spare you more time having to tolerate my… well, healer tendencies, for lack of a better term.”

* * *

 

Though he knows what she implies with her quip, Maretus’ thoughts immediately fly to the few sets of formal attire he used to own. He didn’t ever particularly care for the events at which he was required to wear his formal uniform, but he was always fond of the clothing itself. There were two over tunics he owned–one a deep, rich red with polished copper buttons and thread that made deft accents sewn across it in a simple but stately design, well suited to formal military dinners and ceremonies; and a rich blue one the color of the night sky with black embellishments, more appropriate for any Imperial state businesses he was required to attend.

A fleeting memory overtakes him for a moment, recalling the richness of the material and the expertise of the way it was cut and fit him. He has never been one in all his life for many luxuries, but he suddenly and acutely misses those at Vanora’s words. He hasn’t thought about those tunics in years and it catches him off guard, the memories of them making him fleetingly sentimental, makes him tease her back–not an often occurrence even with the usual ease of their interactions.

“Believe it or not, I once had things for such special occasions. It may be difficult to imagine, but I used to clean up fairly well when I had to,” he says before he thinks better of it, caught up in the rush of remembering. It is in that rush that the image of Vanora in similar formal attire rises up in his mind, and the notion that gold would look striking on her follows.

The corners of his mouth are even started to curl up into a grin in truth when the weight of what he’s just said sinks into his chest like a stone, and any imagining he might have entertained vanishes, just as any sort of smile fades without a ghost of a remainder. He hasn’t thought of his years before leaving Tevinter in a pleasant light for a very long time, and he instantly regrets doing so now, as the thought of her in expensive Tevene fashion reminds him sharp as a knife in his side of the letter in its pouch hanging off his belt this very instant. Maretus is so distracted by this resurgence and the memories and imaginings themselves that he doesn’t take notice that Vanora herself is stumbling over her words.

When she speaks again, it brings him back to the present, though there is an anxiousness fluttering in his chest now that Tevinter has been dragged definitively to the forefront of his thoughts once again. A decade away and he still has yet to truly escape it, it seems.

Clearing his throat more for something to distract himself than any real need, he nods. “Of course–I wouldn’t want to take up your time, anyway. You’ve been busy lately, and my knuckles are of no real concern.” Seeing her pick up her meagre meal of bread and cheese again reminds him he hasn’t had the chance to finish his, and so follows suit in returning to his food.

There was no way he could extract himself for the evening without seeming rude or awkward, so he finds that disciplined corner of his mind that helped keep him calm and collected to finish their meal together.

A thought strikes him, an idea that might help prevent any more potential awkwardness between them and make his investigative intentions in the near future hopefully easier.

“Now seems as good a time as any to mention this,” he begins slowly, laying out his thoughts in order as he speaks, trying to find a way to conceal the truth but not exactly lie, “but I may be unavailable over the next several days. I have several things to look into that very well may be of sensitive natures, and will be most likely very involved and distracted by them. In fact,” he continues, “that is what you came upon earlier. It is potentially… alarming and dangerous information, and I was lost in thought over it.”

As soon as he says that, trying to tie in his out of character actions earlier, Maretus immediately regrets it. Even to him it sounds like a flimsy excuse, but he can only hope that she doesn’t think too deeply about it.

“I… I wanted to let you know. In case it takes me out of Skyhold without warning.” He keeps his eyes on his food as he picks at it, tearing small pieces out of his own piece of bread, unable to meet her eyes.

* * *

 

Vanora chews on her food as Maretus claims that he cleaned up quite nicely. It wasn’t exactly shocking–nobody looked their best when they were working. Honestly, it wasn’t as though he  _didn’t_  look good. Even when the sweat slicks his hair back when he’s focused and working with the soldiers…she tears herself from the train of thought, shocked once more at her own mind. Honestly, one off day and this was what happens? She makes note that she really does need to sleep tonight. Just one more check on her wards before she could call it a day. Maybe she’d sleep a little longer than normal.

Inevitably she turns back to the idea of Maretus all cleaned up for some formal event. Sometimes it’s hard to imagine people you’ve only seen in common garb dressed up–it’s what makes it so pleasantly surprising when they’re all cleaned up. But somehow she can see it. Something dark and fitted…  _something like a uniform_. The memory of the hand to his chest as he bowed suddenly barges into the forefront of her mind, her own thoughts clearly intent on making her mad. Even though it is another uncomfortable reminder of how peculiar things have been between them, the image of him in uniform is not an unpleasant one.

She can see it with remarkable clarity, pulling up the memory of the officer uniforms she’d seen. Although she can’t be certain that he would have been wearing anything  _quite_  so grand, he would doubtlessly look quite striking in it. Vanora doesn’t make any mention of her cleaning up. It was a subject she was keen to stay away from. She was a healer, there was no need for someone of her station to dress up at all.

“I believe it. Tame that hair of yours away from your face, get you all cleaned up–I’m sure you were quite the sight to see.”

They fall into silence again, each picking at their food. It’s a less uncomfortable silence than before, but it isn’t the easy sort of silence that had never bothered them. Apparently she isn’t the only one who finds the silence off putting. Halfway done with her hunk of bread, Vanora’s attention shifts away from her plate and back to Maretus.

His words strike her as…  _odd_. To say the least. Sensitive natures? She knew that Maretus has a place of relative prominence as one of the trainers that the soldiers worked under, but he was hardly in a position that would give him access to anything particularly sensitive. Instead of frowning and furrowing her brow in confusion she lifts her brows, finishing off her bread as she nodded.

“Oh? It seems like someone’s gotten a promotion. Well, I appreciate the advanced warning. At least I won’t be running around wondering where on earth you’ve gone. I suppose I shall have to stand eating alone.”

She speaks with a lighter tone, teasing almost, but her mind is anything but amused. He’d been lost in his thoughts, and if they were related to some sort of sensitive information… What on  _earth_  could be so sensitive that he would need to leave Skyhold for any period of time? Had they decided he would go off and lead a group of soldiers somewhere? It was the only explanation she could come up with. Even so, he could have just said that he might have to leave with the next group of soldiers. Throwing the idea of sensitive matters into the mix seemed…off.

Vanora’s thoughts wander back to the bow, the hand on his chest, the bits of strange things slowly piling up. What was going on? And how had it managed to change so much in such a short period of time? 

* * *

 

She almost manages to return the feeling of the conversation to something more pleasant, commenting on his hair–an unruly mess now, he was sure, and lifts his cleaner hand to rake fingers through it, essentially and self-consciously doing exactly what she suggested. It stays in place from the saturation of sweat and small bit of blood that had gotten in it earlier, swept back from his face in inky waves and curling ends.

“Well–right now is a far cry from it,” he adds. “A good bath would go a long way toward that.”

But.

At the word  _promotion_ , it feels like someone has reached right into his chest and grabbed hold of his lungs, and for a brief, frightening moment, Maretus cannot draw a breath in, and he has to restrain himself from glancing wildly back over to her. The rest of her statement reaches him, albeit somewhat delayed in comprehension, and he can take a breath and relax a bit again. For a split moment, he was worried she’d somehow known about him, about what he ran from. What’s more startling, perhaps, is the equally fleeting want for her to know this thing he felt he had to do so many years ago. This thing he doesn’t exactly regret, but feels the sting of shame, on some level, for abandoning his duty regardless.

He swallows those thoughts. “Yes–something like that,” he says, still not looking at her. It feels as though the letter is burning into his side where it sits.

Maretus knows on some level he shouldn’t have tried to explain anything to her, shouldn’t have said anything at all. He was no good at games of deception, especially when he didn’t relish the idea of deceiving the other person at all. When an appropriate time has passed and they have more or less finished the majority of their food despite the less comfortable quiet that has settled over them, Maretus finally looks back up at her. 

He wants to say something to close the evening, to tie it all up, but nothing comes to mind. This entire meal has demonstrated in several ways that words are painfully not his forte, nor is dancing around any sort of subject. Give him routine and fighting and–Void, even reports he was good at. Delicate conversation, not so much.

“Another day done,” he says lamely instead, and wishes he had also gotten a beer with his meal. Then again, perhaps mixing alcohol into the equation when he hadn’t eaten at all today would not have been terribly prudent.

“I’m glad we were able to catch each other and share dinner as usual.” Thankfully, something he can express genuinely. And it’s true–despite this recent muddying the Tevinter letter has caused in him, the questions it’s raised, the doubt it’s stirred, Maretus  _is_  glad to not have missed another meal with Vanora. “I’ve… missed your company these last few days.”

* * *

 

The vaguely forced teasing apparently doesn’t clear the air for very long. It only takes a minute before they fall back into silence. Whatever has caused this, she swears she’ll get to the root of it. If this is what it’s done for her, to  _them_ , nothing good could be at the heart of it. So she’ll get to the bottom of it, and when she finds out what’s going on she’ll handle it quickly. Then they can go back to the way it was before.

Vanora isn’t really sure what to make of the sudden flush of anger at the thought of handling this mess. She’s never been so upset about a relationship before. At least not physically angry. Sure, there were alliances that didn’t quite work out, and she’d been plenty upset, but it didn’t hurt like this, it didn’t  _burn_. Everything is a mess, and she just wants the calm, familiar routine of her life back.

Perhaps it’s a good thing that she’s lost in her own thoughts; it keeps her from focusing on how bizarre her life has become. Although she’s taking her time finishing up her simple meal it seems to pass with an alarming speed. Before she knows it Maretus is clearly trying to depart. Glancing over to him she straightens up. It isn’t the goodbye that catches her attention, but his final words. She can’t help but smile affectionately–it’s good to know that she isn’t alone in missing her friend.

"I agree; I have missed you as well. It’s gotten late, and you must be tired. I think it is bedtime, yes?”

They get up and leave the tavern, and for a few moments she can forget the tension. At least until they’re outside and have to part ways. She’s never found saying goodbye to him something that made her uneasy, but she fakes comfort well enough. More tired than she realized, she rubs at her eyes and stifles a yawn.

"Well, I shall see you tomorrow.”

She corrects herself quickly.

"Or whenever your business allows. Sleep well, Maretus. I wish you the best of luck on your task, whatever it is.”

With that they part ways, him to the barracks and her to the tower, the farewell sitting ill with Vanora. But now she has a task of her own, a reason to stay up a bit later, a reason to stay busy during her quieter hours. She  _will_  get to the bottom of this mess.

* * *

 

The next several days go by quickly, with Maretus wrapped up in gathering information between his regular training exercises with the soldiers. Having learned a fast lesson from speaking with Dorian, he seeks out Amichele, one of the Spymaster’s people that he has become familiar with over his time with the Inquisition. True to her nature, she doesn’t ask much questions of his request outside of the most practical and logistic ones, before going to pull whatever strings she did.

Sitting at his desk and leaning back in his chair, he realizes he should have done this first. Going to Dorian had been a very big mistake, and while the altus hadn’t sought him out or come asking around for him and nosing about, Maretus was certain it would come back to haunt him in some manner sooner or later. Possibly his only hope would be that the Inquisition’s needs will supersed any curiosity Dorian has, at least long enough to seem silly to follow through with it.

Or enough time for him to vanish again.

He stops tapping his quill against a scrap parchment, an old distracted habit, and rolls that thought around in his mind. Does he truly want to leave? It’s his first self-preserving instinct, but something makes him pause and question it this time.

Before he can get too lost down that path, a knock comes at his door, followed by two more in quick succession.

Maretus returns the quill back into the jar and stands, going over to the door and letting Amichele in. Shutting it behind her, his stomach twists itself into several knots. Her face is inscrutable when she pushes her deep hood back, bright green eyes alighting on him, revealing nothing and waiting for his signal for her to proceed. He nods, holding his breath against impatience to hear what she has found.

“Septimus Caecius,” she begins, her voice low, “is real. He is related not too distantly to the House Tiberius, and resides in Tevinter.”

The knot in his stomach winds tighter, and he feels physically ill at her news. He is almost afraid to ask the next question, and has to grip his hand into a fist to keep it from shaking at his side. “And… the heir to the House?”

Amichele studies him in silence for several beats, and he is sure she can hear his heart pounding in his chest, that it’s echoing throughout the entirety of his chambers. After a few moments or a few hundred years, she shakes her head.

“I couldn’t find out anything about that. My window was limited. I’m sorry.”

There is a brief moment where he almost feels like one of the nauseas knots in his stomach will release, but then it passes and the knots all remain. He gives her a terse nod, then moves back to his desk and rummages through one of the drawers, pulling out a small suede pouch.

“Thank you for finding out what you did,” he says, pressing the pouch into her hand.

“I shouldn’t…”

This time it is he that shakes his head, firmly. “No. You didn’t have to do this for me. It is thanks. And silence.”

Amichele nods. “Of course. You have been a strong asset to the Inquisition, and I… I don’t believe you to be a threat. You don’t have to worry, Maretus.” With that, she leaves him alone with his thoughts again.

Leaning heavily on his desk after she shuts the door, Maretus feels a line of sweat run down his spine beneath his tunic. Septimus is who he claims to be, what he knows about Maretus is the truth… what does that mean for what he claims of Vanora? What does that mean for them?

He runs theories through his head. Septimus could still be lying–there could be some other reason he wants Vanora back in Tevinter, some reason he himself wants to conceal and so lies about who she is. Or… he could be telling the truth about that, as he had about Maretus. It’s clear that the threat to revealing Maretus’ past are to make him comply with convincing–or forcing–Vanora back to Tevinter, but to what end, Maretus could not imagine. He viscerally dislikes being someone else’s pawn again, but now wonders if he should fear for Vanora’s life as well as his own.

It doesn’t sit well with him at all.

Staring down at the papers on his desk and not seeing them, Maretus tries for several moments and fails to think of what his next step should be. All he knows is that he has to find out who House Tiberius’ missing heir is. 

Somehow.

* * *

 

After saying goodnight to Maretus, Vanora returns to her room at the top of the tower. Though she had intended to go to bed early in an attempt to rid herself of the flurry of emotions rolling around in her chest, she finds that she has something more pressing to attend to. Bound and determined to figure out what Maretus is up to, what has caused this sudden change, she pulls out parchment, quills and ink, setting them carefully on her desk.

She words her letter carefully, elegantly scrawled script lining the paper as she goes along. She’s learned long ago that it is beyond foolish to ask straightforward questions in letters such as the one that she currently pens. Instead things are spoken of, questions written between the lines for an experienced source to retrieve and answer. Once the first is done she begins to copy it on a new piece of parchment. By the time the moon begins its descent towards the horizon she has a pile of 10 letters. Vanora doubts she will need all 10, but she is unwilling to take risks with this. Not all her sources are the most active, nor are they the most reliable. Better to cover her bases and then some than risk not getting the information she needs.

While it is still in the realm where obscenely late and obscenely early intermingle she seals the letters and slips silently through through the courtyard. Skyhold is silent as a graveyard, even with the soldiers on night watch walking the walls. It is easy enough to get to the tower where the birds are all kept. Nobody is there at this time, nobody is anywhere besides their own bed. Her letters are folded up in tightly packed little rolls, tied to the legs of the birds, and then sent off into the night. Something like anxiety and excitement mix together in her chest, the feeling dulled only by the realization that she is  _exhausted_.

When she makes it back to the tower, her walk more leisurely now that her work is done, she checks on her wards one last time. They are stable, all of them sleeping. Satisfied with her progress for the day she heads back to her room and, finally, falls quickly asleep. In the morning she focuses on her work, doing mundane tasks,  _anything_  to keep her mind on what’s in front of her and not what’s been put in motion.

The next few days are uncomfortably nerve wracking, though nobody would know it looking at her. She waits anxiously to hear back from her contacts, one of them,  _any_  of them. Even a hint at what was going on would be much appreciated. Somehow she hopes that it will all be rubbish, just her overreacting to a change in her rituals. She’d gotten too content with her time with Maretus, too comfortable with their daily routines. It wasn’t a good thing, she had to stay detached, ready to leave whenever it was time. Emotional attachment, as she had always been taught, only led to pain.

No matter how much she forces herself to believe that it really  _is_  all in her head, her lack of contact with Maretus during those days does nothing to assuage the nagging fear that she  _is_  right. Vanora prided herself, after all, on being the best of the best in Tevinter. She’d outwitted everyone in her age range, played the game better than just about all of them, and managed to do so without causing any sort of upheaval. It was a success that nobody saw coming until it had already happened. And being able to read people, to pick up subtleties, had been critical.

Ignoring her instincts wasn’t easy and, ultimately, wasn’t likely to do anything but disappoint her. It isn’t until she is ready for bed that the first bird comes. At first she doesn’t imagine it’s for her–unless one of Leliana’s faster birds had been lingering around, it was a bit soon to hear back. A quick examination of the parchment, however, revealed that it was too heavy to be a simple note for the healers. The wax seal only confirmed that it was for her. As she unties the parchment from the bird’s leg, letting it fly back to the roost, she clings to the hope that the fast return is because her source has never heard of a Maretus from the Legion. Parchment in hand, holding out hope that this was all in her head, she turns to the tower and starts her way up the stairs.

* * *

 

If one could call it good luck after his small success with Amichele bringing him more information, then that’s what he has for the next few days. Maretus draws some old and disused tactics from before he left Tevinter out from somewhere and plays a more tactful hand with the next few people he seeks out.

Amichele directs him toward a scout she knows whom she trusts, who then sends Maretus the location of a scholar who was from Tevinter, but whose academic quests had brought him to the far southern mountains and was still in the area. The scout tells him this scholar is well within a short trip from Skyhold, and Maretus sets out the next day he can schedule a break in training.

Borrowing a horse from Dennet with the excuse of scouting out an outside area for terrain exercises, it is only years of discipline that allows him to outwardly seem like he isn’t a bundle of nerves.

It takes him the better part of the morning and into the early afternoon to navigate his way along narrow mountain paths he’s sure have only seen goats for several years, and his horse nearly loses its footing twice along the way. After the second time, Maretus dismounts and cautiously leads it through the most treacherous-looking turns and dips in the snowy rock, making progress slow even more. At least the more treacherous ground occupies his mind and leaves no room to ruminate on what he may find when he arrives.

Just after the time when he usually takes his lunch, he spots a nearly hidden offshoot of the path his is on vanish beneath an outcropping. He would have assuredly missed it if the scout hadn’t told him what to look for, and so he heads down it, the outcropping so low he has to dismount and walk his horse through.

It opens back up between snow-covered crags rising on either side of the path, and a thin trail of smoke fades into the bright sky from a little conical hut nestled in a crook of the rock. He leaves his horse loosely hobbled a few spans away and calls out.

Once he assures the scholar that he will remain anonymous–so long as Maretus stays anonymous as well–the scholar allows him entrance into the hut. Maretus produces a small stash of old scrolls the scout had told him might help loosen the scholar’s tongue. Sure enough, they do the trick, and when safely tucked into the scholar’s possession, he reveals himself to be a mage, albeit not a very good one. Being a weak and unskilled altus from Tevinter, the scholar pursued academia instead, much to the disappointment of the minor house he belonged to.

Tired from the hazardous path here, impatience wearing and fraying in him, Maretus presses, “How does this connect with the information I’m after?”

The scholar gives him a slow, knowing smile. “Because, for the brief time that I was in the Circle back home, I knew the missing heir to House Tiberius.”


	3. Chapter 3

**iii.**

Never before had Vanora moved so swiftly up the stairs to her room. Normally such a pace was reserved for patient emergencies, not eagerness to read a letter. But these circumstances were a far cry from normal. Once she is inside her room she has to control her urge to slam the door and read the letter where she stands. Forcing a brief calm, she manages to quietly shut the door and sit at her desk. She’s barely sitting down when she breaks the seal and unrolls the parchment. Vanora spares a quick glance at the signature at the bottom, registering that it is one of her oldest contacts, before her pale eyes focus on the body of the message. She reads it once, then twice, and a third time for good measure.  

When she is satisfied that she hasn’t missed  _anything_ , she finally sets the paper down. The candle on her desk flickers weakly and she finds herself staring listlessly into the flame, eyes unfocused as she grapples with what she’s just read. The moment of numb shock ebbs as a cold feeling shoots through her body. She shudders, staring down at the letter again, trying once more to  _understand_. The words all register, but somehow they bounce right off her, their meaning lost. Standing, the paper in hand, she paces the room, reading the letter again and again until she’s certain that she’s memorized it. 

By the time she is finished her pacing the paper is wrinkled from the gradual tightening of her fingers into a near fist. The chill in her body has warmed and faded, replaced instead with something hot and uncomfortable. It sends tremors through her hands as she tosses the paper back onto her desk and resumes her pacing. 

_Damn it all._

Minutes pass, maybe even an hour, before she finally stops her pacing again. So she had been right after all, he was a soldier. Or had been. More than a soldier, much more. There is a title that belongs to him as well, and what a title it is. Maretus Varovelo, Legator Legarem of the Perivantium Legion. Deserters were not taken lightly in Tevinter, much less someone of his stature. 

Vanora feels sick, leaning over, hands planted firmly on her desk as she stares at its surface.  _Legator Legarem of the Perivantium Legion._  It was almost as impressive a title as her own. Everything is muddled. Her initial anger is still there, burning in her veins, but it’s ebbed slightly. Had he not done exactly what she had done? Both their lies were warranted, his perhaps more so. Tevinter’s reach was farther than anyone realized…until they were trying to escape. A deserter of his standing would only have one fate should the Imperium track him down. She cannot reasonably be angry at him for lying to her, for doing exactly what she has done for years.

Then, creeping up and stifling the anger, is another sort of discomfort. Yes, she is angry that he’s lied about everything, but guilt mixes in, and a pain that she isn’t familiar with. She had always wanted to tell him who she was, at least a little part of her history, to find a kindred spirit in him–she was certain that it would have brought them closer. If only she had done it sooner, all of this might have been avoided. She should have  _told_  him.

And then there is the last thread of feeling turning over in her gut, the one she cannot quite place, the one that feels dangerously like sorrow, like pain. Yet there was no reason to be sad. There was no evidence that his business had anything to do with her, no evidence that he knew anything about who she was. Even as she thinks this she knows it is a delusion. Everything that has happened is no chance, and there is something very wrong. Swallowing down as much of the emotion in her gut as she possibly can, Vanora manages to right herself. Tearing herself up so late at night would do nothing. Sleep now. She would worry about this in the morning.         

* * *

  

_It is true_.

_Everything he feared and tried to convince himself couldn’t possibly be true, is._

After the scholar starts talking, he needs no more prompting from Maretus to continue.

“Ah, yes, House Tiberius,” he says, shuffling his long and heavy robes around himself to sit by the fire. “Once a great house, but fell on some rough times. You know, a few political missteps and you start getting some tarnish.” He moves his hand in a vague circular motion.

It irritates Maretus. “Yes,” he says, impatience growing, sharpening his tone. “I know how it works, and I don’t care. The only thing I want to know is who the heir is, whom you claim to have known personally at the Circle, but have as of yet failed to provide an actual name.”

The scholar huffs a little, miffed that his circumlocutious, evocative introduction to the subject is pushed so heartlessly aside. “Very well, if you’d rather be  _dull_  about it.” Smoothing a few minute folds out of the lap of his robes, he doesn’t look up at this rather familiar stranger as he continues.

“She was the  _shining star_  the moment she arrived. Four years my younger and better than I ever could have hoped to be in my wildest dreams before they  _even_  accepted her. Can you imagine? Ready to join a Circle as prestigious as that at  _seven_?” He scoffs, obviously outraged at the very memory itself.

Noting the look on Maretus’ face, the scholar clears his throat a little. “Yes. Exceedingly talented in both magic and social maneuvering, reserving her  _precious time_  and attention only for those  _she_  deemed worthy of them. Meaning, of course, people who could further her own status and weight. Meaning, of course, she wouldn’t give  _me_  the time of day if I’d asked her.” He sniffs, looking down his nose at the fire before his feet.

“So you didn’t know her,” Maretus states flatly.

The scholar lifts his eyes back to Maretus, suddenly sharp and shrewd. “ _I_  know who she is, even if I was never counted among those high enough to rank in her personal circles.”

“And her name?”

Frowning, the scholar picks a few particles of non-existent dust from his robes. “You have no sense of  _flair_  or  _dramatics_ , do you?” he complains.

“No.”

He sighs, the sound vaguely disappointed. “Very well, since you must have it your way. Her name is Vanora Iolanthe of the House Tiberius. A name I won’t ever forget after such an entrance as she made exploding onto the scene of the Circle.”

The rest of what the scholar says after her name turns to muted, distant noise to Maretus, the entirety of his focus narrowing to a pinpoint in an instant. At first, he feels absolutely nothing, as if the very Void itself had yawned open inside his chest–and then he feels  _everything_.

He snarls something through a red haze of hurt and betrayal and  _anger_ , but he doesn’t know what except that it must be threatening to make the scholar cower as suddenly as he does. And then he is outside, barely feeling the slap of cold against his face–and then on his horse already well on the way on the path back toward Skyhold. He has no recollection of mounting nor leaving the little crag valley the conical hut is in.

Despite the same hazards slowing his progress along the narrow mountain path on the way back to Skyhold, there is a gripping sense of urgency winding his stomach around a winch. He feels feverish, his brow and ears and neck as hot as if they’d been burned by the sun, while at the same time a sickening, acrid burning roils in his stomach and gut enough to make him forgo any late lunch or dinner he might have otherwise partaken in.

Maretus cannot grasp onto any clear sequence of thoughts long enough to begin processing the confirmation of his fears– _Vanora, an altus, a mage, the heir to an old and still influential House, the heir to the House’s seat in the Magisterium itself_ –and he isn’t sure when the sun started setting during his journey, but the full night is nearly upon him before he realizes he needs to stop or fall to his death from some unseen patch of ice. He scrounges enough presence of mind to feed his horse oats and rub it down before unfolding and draping a heavier blanket over its back and both hobbling and tying it to an outcropping. He doesn’t even think to look for shelter, and so spends the night out in the open, falling asleep only when mindless exhaustion overtakes him.

When morning comes, he is freezing and clear-headed enough to see what a terrible mistake he’d made last night in not seeking shelter. Fortunately, his luck held and the weather was clear and neither he nor his horse froze to death. He walks the horse for a long while first, though, before he feels comfortable in its health to ride again.

Skyhold looms above him come midday, and he drops his horse back off at the stables and then makes his way back to his quarters through sheer habit rather than any true presence of mind or direction.

As soon as he closes the door shut behind him, his blood runs cold and the full weight and comprehension of everything presses down on him, tightening his chest so much he has to grip the wall.

_Vanora, an altus, a mage, the heir to an old and still influential House, the heir to the House’s seat in the Magisterium itself–_

Pain lances through him, and he would have emptied his stomach if he had eaten anything; as it is, he sinks to the cool stone floor of his room and sits with his head back against the wall and stares into nothing.

_It is true._

_Everything he feared and tried to convince himself couldn’t possibly be true, is._

What was he going to do?

* * *

 

Mechanical is the only way to describe Vanora’s next few days. She goes through all the motions, does all her work, interacts properly, but she isn’t really there. She’s trapped in her own head, stuck wondering the same things over and over again. Knowing that Maretus has lied still stings, though she can’t fathom why–she’d done exactly the same thing. Indeed, her lies were worse. At least he acknowledge where he was from when pressed. Meanwhile she had hidden everything but her name, and even then she had omitted most of it. Although she is a mess inside, feelings and thoughts as turbulent as the sea on a stormy day, she manages to do her best to handle it. Pain she has dealt with before, though never quite this way, and she can work despite it. What is not so easy to handle are the questions.

Now that the truth had come forth there were so many questions, but the one that takes up nearly all her attention is  _why_? Why was he here? What had happened to drastically alter his demeanor in a matter of hours? She hadn’t stayed on top, hadn’t stayed  _alive_ , by being ignorant and trying to answer questions of great consequence without digging deeper. With ties to Tevinter there are a plethora of reasons to suddenly have business of a secretive nature. Perhaps the Inquisition had found him out, or known all along, and were using him as a means to gather information. The idea is quickly dismissed. If they wanted information on Tevinter they had Leliana’s spies or Dorian’s big mouth. They didn’t need him.

There is the possibility that the situation is switched, that it is Tevinter spying on the Inquisition. With the Venatori now in play, the question of whether or not Tevinter is formally allied with the mages or the Elder One who claimed parentage to the Imperium is one that cannot be ignored. The Imperium would want to know the climate of the Inquisition, whether or not they believed the Archon’s insistence that Tevinter denied association to the Venatori and Corypheus. Still, the few interactions with Maretus during these past days have made it perfectly clear that he is not a capable spy. He’s a soldier, nothing more. They would be fools to place their bets all on one rather incapable man.

And so the next possibility slides into the forefront of her mind.

As a deserter Maretus was never truly safe. The Inquisition offered him protection and a level of anonymity, but it would not always be thus. He could be investigating his next move, a backup plan in case things went wrong, in case he had to leave. Or maybe he was just preparing to leave after being in one place so long. It would explain why he was so secretive, why he had to leave Skyhold for a few days. And it would explain why he had no interest in divulging his actions. Not even to Vanora. The thought elicits a sharp pang in her chest that lingers, distracting her as she tries to think logically, without any sort of emotional impairment.  _Focus, woman._

Vanora’s mind shifts back to her earlier theory, that Maretus had somehow been used as a spy. Just because he was a terrible spy, didn’t mean he had to be actively acting as one. His presence, keeping an eye on the day to day activities of the Inquisition, could be enough. Nothing specific to do, just keep an eye out for anything big. It wouldn’t be an important job, per se. If Tevinter wanted eyes inside the Inquisition it was much easier to send someone trained to watch. But… maybe they  _had_. It would explain the sudden change in his demeanor. With so many people to focus on Maretus wouldn’t have been the first to draw any spy’s attention. There were more important, influential people to investigate. Maretus’ position as a trainer marked him, but not enough that he would be an initial person of interest.

If someone had heard his name, had realized that he was certainly  _not_  from the South, it wouldn’t be hard for them to put two and two together. Vanora has had no trouble finding out who he is, and a spy directly tapped into the Imperium would have even less trouble. Blackmail was the only logical conclusion in that case. Something must have happened to him within the past few days. A spy cornering him, threatening him. Dropping his name was all that would be required to know that his identity had been exposed to someone. Wouldn’t that be enough to bend him, at least for a time?

What a horrible twist of fate it would be. Maretus surviving on his own all this time only to be blackmailed into something terrible while he tried to help the Inquisition. But with his spying abilities so useless, what would be the point of having him? Infiltrating and crippling the army? One man was hardly enough to do so, even someone of Maretus’ station. There are no conclusive answers to any of her questions, but a terrible thought whispers into her ear. What if he  _knew_?

So focused on Maretus and what his intentions were Vanora had hardly considered the repercussions for herself if these ideas held some truth. Maretus was an easy enough mark, but if one Tevinter deserter was with the Inquisition, who was to say there weren’t others? Any investigation into Maretus would doubtlessly involve her name, at least in passing. Although her name wasn’t the most recent of news in Tevinter, she doubts it is one so easily forgotten. The thought makes her blood turn cold and her chest constrict, the churning in her stomach doubles as a twinge of fear hits her.

Vanora is not accustomed to so much emotion overwhelming her at once. Indeed, she isn’t used to being overwhelmed at all. Not even her shocking need to adjust once she had left Tevinter had managed to truly overwhelm her. And now here she was, sitting in the stock room, wrapping bandages, and barely holding herself together. She concludes that it is only because of the possible threat to her own safety. Such a strong reaction is only natural when one’s life is in danger. Still, there is a niggling doubt in the back of her head, a gut instinct that tells her it’s not just self preservation that is at work here. She had already dealt with the feelings involved in surviving, in fearing for her life, but this is markedly different.

Something is different this time, but with so many questions she doesn’t need another. Despite her focus returning to her endless cycle of queries, the question of why this feels so overwhelming lingers in the back of her mind, unwilling to go away no matter how fervently she ignores it.

* * *

 

He doesn’t remember how or when he went to bed, but he wakes up beneath his own blankets, staring up at the ceiling. It seems to be early afternoon, by the light of the sun, which is later than he’s slept in a long while. A sudden anxiety grabs hold of the bottom of his chest, tightening his lungs, and he darts out of bed. He will have to rush to get ready and would probably still be late in getting to the training grounds. Every third day is when he’s chosen to personally lead exercises among the troops, spending time getting to know his legionnaires from the foot soldiers and their Descataei to the Impaetorii, and each of the Preimus Espartumei and their Atarastemei. He remembers clearly being among all those ranks himself not too many years ago, and that dedicated attention from the top commanding officer not only made him perform better, but served as a morale boost for the next few days. At the finish of every one of these dedicated days he makes sure to write the names of every legionnaire of all ranks and what section they are part of as accurately as he can recall, so he knows them the next time without needing another introduction. It is a method that serves him well, and he is swiftly remembering more without having to use it as much.

As he moves to his adjoining bathing room, however, he realizes with an abrupt jolt of vertigo that he’s not in Tevinter, and his quarters there never looked like this. He’s in the Inquisition, at Skyhold, in the Frostback Mountains, a decade and thousands of leagues away from there. He puts a hand across his eyes, wondering fleetingly if he was late to train the soldiers here.

And then he remembers.

A shiver courses through him as it feels as though someone shoved an iron ball weight into his chest and let it drop down to the pit of his stomach. Mouth turning dry and jaw clenching, he has to take several deep breaths through his nose before calming a little.

“Vanora is an  _altus_.”

It takes him a moment to realize he’s spoken aloud, and he’s almost surprised he hasn’t choked on the words. They leave a bitter taste in his mouth, and he scowls, growing angrier the more he thinks about it.

He’s always thought he had good judgement, could make an accurate assessment of another’s character within the first few moments of meeting them, but–he chuckles acridly at the notion–she sure had him fooled. Had she used her magic around him and he was just so blindsided he’d never noticed? Was he so distracted around her that he misjudged her so phenomenally?

Of course, such a line of thought makes a distance voice in the back of his mind ask what he’d been so distracted by, and why he thought himself blindsided, but he ignores those questions and focuses on the molten ember of anger that lodged itself painfully beside his heart.

Only when he realizes that he’s looking around his room for something to break that he decides he has to go do something. Not for many years does he recall ever feeling this angry and upset and hurt. Quickly, he changes into practice gear and heads out to the training dummies. A good few hours of sweat will help him, he reasons, picking up his sword still in its scabbard and not even bothering to buckle it onto a belt before storming out the door.

_He thought she was his friend._

The words echo a rhythm that drives his sword arm with ferocity. But, even trying to tire himself out does nothing to calm his thoughts, to calm the roiling agitation in his chest, to quell the ever-sharpening hurt sliding between his fourth and fifth rib. He drives his sword into the ground in frustration, sweat rolling down the sides of his face and down the trench of his spine.

_Has_  he ever seen her use magic? He’d watched her work plenty of times, and can’t ever recall her casting so much as a sleep spell on anyone. Not that he’d know simply by looking, but he  _feels_  like he should. Maretus shakes his head.

His hands hurts, and he looks down to see it clenched into a fist so tight his short nails were digging into his palm. Consciously relaxing his grip, Maretus flexes his hand a few times.

And she  _lied_  to him about who she was–and he startles himself to realize he doesn’t mean about concealing that she is an altus, but… She knows he is from Tevinter, and he’s never hidden that fact. They could have commiserated, could have connected, could have… His jaw tightens, unsure of where that particular line of thought was taking him and resisting going down it. She hid everything, all of it, from the start. Trying to remember, he can’t recall if she ever outright  _lied_  to him, or lied about where she was from, or if she had merely always skirted answering. The fact that he never straightforwardly asked her briefly flits across his mind, but he dismisses it in his hurt. He isn’t the one trying to hide who he is.

Except that he  _is_ , and the admission comes like an awakening slap to him.

_It’s not the same._  He realizes with a sudden clarity that it hurts that he thought they were close enough that she could trust him, and she hadn’t.

With that thought sobering him somewhat, he retrieves his sword and heads back to his quarters. Hacking at a dummy for a decent handful of hours has, in fact, helped him, and he can think a bit more clearly by the time he strips and cleans. Putting his personal feelings, the jumbled mess that they are, aside, there still remains the trouble of the letter. Maretus knows a threat when he reads one, and there are several couched in Septimus’ words.

Sinking down into the hot water, he decides he needs to take more time to figure out what to do. Six days remain before Septimus will do whatever he threatened to do, and that should be more than enough time to figure something out. Eyes closing and concentrating on the lap of the water, he tries not to think about another time when Vanora found him in the bath and how different it could have been were he not nearly bleeding out.

He doesn’t have to wait long at all. The next day brings him the inevitable–crossing paths with Vanora, the one person who’s occupied his thoughts (more so than usual, more so than he’d ever admit) these past eight days, which he should have expected. Anticipated it, really. But instead it catches him entirely off guard, and the tenuous calm he’s been able to envelope himself in from the previous day shatters and he feels shredded and raw and bleeding from all the shards it leaves in him.

Before he can think–think to stop, think to do something rational instead–Maretus strides over to her and manages to prevent himself from grabbing her wrist and dragging her forcibly off to somewhere private to talk.

“We have to speak,” he snaps, not even attempting to keep the anger and hurt from his voice, unable to keep any of his emotions in check now that he’s around her and looking at her face and eyes he’s always found striking. They seem to bore into him now. “ _Privately_.”

* * *

 

Miraculously Vanora manages to lock the questions away for a good portion of the evening. As with many things that make her uncomfortable or distract her mind she finds a way, somehow, to lock them in a box. Or at least throw herself so far into her work that she doesn’t know which way is up by the end of it. Unwilling to risk running into the man that has completely possessed her thoughts she skips out on dinner. Even if she risked it she wasn’t sure that she could eat anything; even the idea of food makes her queasy. As though she needed another reason to feel ill.

Once she’s left her work behind, late though it may be, she is inevitably consumed by her thoughts again. The questions are incessant, but she cannot move any further without more proof. A name and a title were enough to solidify her concerns that something is wrong, enough to send her mind spiraling out of control with  _what ifs_ , but it is nowhere near conclusive. Unfortunately she isn’t sure even her contacts can help her answer the questions. If anything of note had happened with her family she would have received notice. She did, after all, still have her oldest and most trusted contacts there.

When she finally turns for her bed it is only out of sheer exhaustion. Between her work and the relentless cycle of ideas in her head that have kept her pacing for well over an hour, she is finally tired enough to sleep. The exhaustion is so severe that she remains unplagued by thoughts even as she lies down in her bed. The same cannot be said of her dreams. The night passes and she is wracked with dreams, nightmares really. At first there are spies, their eyes glowing in the shadows as she works, keenly aware that they are there and yet trapped, unable to do anything to save herself. They see everything, know everything, but beyond the safety of the Inquisition she knows she will be dead within a matter of days.

Fear and panic wrack her body as she desperately tries to balance remaining calm with finding a way out, any way out. She doesn’t want to die, doesn’t want things to end this way. Tevinter is still out there, her House needs her, and there are so many things she wants to accomplish, so much she wants to change. When it seems like the shadows are ready to swallow her, the glowing eyes multiplying as she slips deeper into the darkness, everything changes. There’s a spark that turns to light, pushing the glowing eyes back to the fringes of her vision. And there, in the center of it, is  _him_. What Maretus is doing there, how he knows, is beyond her comprehension.

Relief surges through her body. She is safe, and it is all because of him. Though at first he appears concerned, when it is clear that she is physically unharmed he cracks a smile. It’s brighter than the ones she’s seen on his face and it makes her chest swell. She takes a tentative step forward, waiting for it to all go wrong, but it doesn’t. Another step, then another, and she is right in front of him. Before she can process anything her arms are around him, face buried in his chest as she calms her breathing. He shifts, but it is not in the uncomfortable way that he has before when they’ve found themselves in such close proximity that they could feel one another’s heat. Instead he lifts his arms and wraps them around her. When he sets his chin on her head, tucking her beneath him, her breath hitches and she swears she could cry.

Everything is peaceful, the world is alright…and then it all goes wrong.

“You  _lied_.”

The statement shocks Vanora, the growl in her ear making her stiffen. When she tries to pull back one of his hands moves, knotting in her hair and pulling her away from him, eyes narrowed into a hateful glare.

“ _Traitor, liar, fraud. You are nothing_.”

It feels like the world has fallen out from her feet, her chest constricting so tightly she swears she won’t be able to breathe in a moment. Now she really is crying, the sounds of her sobs choked as she gasps for breath. All the while he glares. And when she is sure that it will be her last breath he sneers at her and tosses her away.

Vanora shoots up in bed, gasping for air, hand clutching her chest as the panic grips her. She doesn’t realize where she is, her own hand starting to slip up her chest, nearly making her choke herself. Finally her eyes focus, mind recognizing the walls and the little desk, the tiny window that looked out into the courtyard. Gradually the panic ebbs away, but she keeps her hand on her chest until she can breathe normally, heart racing out of control.

_It was just a nightmare…a terrible, terrible nightmare._

If she had felt ill before, it was worse now. Sitting up in bed she realizes that the sheets are a mess, blankets almost completely off her bed, twisted around her legs. It was one hell of a nightmare. Slowly she untangles herself, making the bed and trying to shake the lingering nightmare. Even when she’s dressed, heading down to start her work, keen on skipping breakfast, the terror still lingers. She falls into the rhythm of her day and finds that the questions no longer clutter her brain. There are still there, but they are quieted as though waiting to be called upon for further investigation. She isn’t sure if the terrible nightmare was worth a quiet mind. Quiet, but not calm.

So wrapped up in her work, in her attempts to avoid confronting everything going on, she scarcely notices when the sun hits midday and the healers begin shifting out for lunch. Only when one of the youngest stops in does she realize what time it is. She promises to join them later, to just let her finish up this last bit of work, but she has no intention of eating this afternoon. She still cannot shake the nightmare, and she begins to suspect that locking herself in the tower for so long isn’t helping her. A walk would do her well, help her clear her head. Setting down the last bandage she’s cleaned Vanora makes her way down the steps and out the tower. She’s barely made it halfway across the courtyard when she is blindsided.

Vanora is barely in the present, wrapped up in herself despite her attempts to focus beyond. So it is no surprise that any interruption would jolt her so suddenly back to reality. Her attention shifts quickly and she nearly jumps when she registers the face of Maretus. Remnants of the nightmare grip her, and were she a lesser person she would have looked like a deer facing down a hunter. As it is, she manages to keep her reaction to surprise. And she  _is_ surprised. Another moment passes and she can see him clearly,  _really_  see him, and her stomach drops. It is a face that, before an unfortunate trip down the mountain, she would have never known.

He is  _angry_. More than angry. Furious, perhaps. The look was frightening enough when she’d seen it directed towards those three horrible men. But it chills her to her core to see it directed at her. Her chest tightens, stomach somewhere near her knees, and thanks the Maker that she’s had so much time to learn self control. There is no way to hide her surprise, her fear—only her ability to keep it in check, to show only the barest hints of the emotions that wrack her body. Frowning, a look of surprise and confusion on her face, she nods.

“Of course, Maretus. Lead the way.”

* * *

 

He turns his back to her and begins walking, not realizing until he’s already well on his way that he expects her to follow and not just slip away when he’s not looking. She would have no reason to before, but by now she knows something is wrong–he is not himself, and he knows it and he can seem to do nothing about it. While she follows him, he concentrates on steadying his breath, on willing his heart to stop pounding as if it were trying to escape his chest. It is only the years of discipline that finally allow him to regain control, though his stomach is still in knots. Maretus cannot decipher whether it’s more from knowing the truth about her now–and having to trust she doesn’t obliterate him from behind with lightning or fire or whatever her forte was, he suddenly thinks–or from talking to her about it. He’d never shied away from having difficult conversations within the Legion about performance, but this is hardly a professional issue and one he’s not used to. There are a host of emotions tearing him up inside that he has not felt or taken any time to truly deal with, and they were quickly twisting up in one another to make him feel physically ill.

He bites the inside of his cheek to give himself focus, the mild and brief pain cutting through the worst of his wayward thoughts. He just had to deal with it one step at a time.

As soon as he thinks that, he stops cold and realizes where he’s mindlessly led them–the abandoned room where they once shared a dance.

A sharp and unexpected feeling digs into the bottom of his heart, suddenly recalling the feel of her and the sway of them moving to unheard music. He shakes his head and pushes the thought away. He wishes he hadn’t walked them here as if he intended to, but there was no changing it now and it would have to do. At least they were guaranteed to have privacy here.

Gathering himself with a breath, he leads the way inside. Sunlight dappled through the breaks in the roof down to mossy stones and a dusty table in the far corner. A few birds flutter out of the top from the rafters, the humans’ sudden entrance disturbing their roost.

Finding himself afraid to turn and look her in the face again, and feeling something like guilt mixing into the volatile concoction of emotions threatening to overcome him like a riptide, Maretus takes a few more moments to walk further into the room, though he can hear that she’s come to a stop behind him.

She must be worried sick over what has him so upset, he thinks, knowing that the outburst he’d displayed earlier let alone the severity of it was highly unusual for him. The acute desire to assuage her worries nearly makes him turn and tell her he was sorry for all this, but he bites down on it.

Folding his arms across his chest, Maretus stops before he begins to pace in earnest, and stares up at the broken ceiling. Completely ruined and unable to keep any weather out–rain or hail or snow fall right through into this room–and yet it still provided enough cover for nesting or wintering birds, still it segmented the sunlight in such a way to create a natural mosaic of light on the floor. He draws in a shaky breath, trying to fortify himself and instead finding he feels more vulnerable than ever.

This shouldn’t be  _hard_ , he tries to reason with himself. She is an altus, she is from Tevinter, from an old House, heir to a seat in the Magisterium itself, he reminds himself, but the words ring a little hollow in his mind, as if he’d spoken them aloud in this room and they only halfway echoed back to him. He lowers his gaze to the floor in front of his boots and lets out a breath.

“Vanora,” he begins, and is immediately appalled at how cracked and wounded his voice sounds. He winces at the sound of it to his own ears, and then his shoulders slump as he turns partially back to her. Could he even look at her face? It felt like the anger that was propelling him was quashed in this quiet, tucked away room that held a pleasant memory for him, like it had all rushed out of him as soon as he got her alone in order to call her out and demand she explain herself to him. Now he just feels hurt and frightened–partially because the thought of magic itself scares him, let alone in someone he respects and likes, and partially because he thinks he is starting to understand why he feels so hurt, and that thought might terrify him more than her magic.

He draws in another steadying breath, closes his eyes and tries again.

“Vanora.” His voice is more level this time, less like he dragged it out raw into the open. “I know who you are.”

* * *

 

Maretus doesn’t even acknowledge that she’s responded, just turns on his heel and starts marching away. By the time she’s processed that he’s moving she has to jog a short distance to catch up to him. She stands slightly to his side, but ensures she’s at least five steps behind him. An irrational fear takes hold, Vanora doubling her efforts to stay away from him should he lash out and hit her. He wouldn’t hit her, would he? No, this is still Maretus. The fear is merely an after effect of the nightmare that she  _still_  cannot shake. After this talk there might be something more pressing to focus on.

He moves with the purpose and determination of a man on a mission. The longer they walk the more she fears what he might want to talk about. She knew he had returned the other night, but he’d disappeared as soon as he’d come back. It shouldn’t be that surprising since he’d barely been around the past few days, but it doesn’t mean she doesn’t worry about him. Even if he might have ulterior motives, even if he’s up to no good, he’s still her Maretus. She corrects the thought, she doesn’t own him. More evidence that she is not herself.

Despite his brisk pace she manages to keep up, though she must move quicker to match his longer strides. Did the Legion teach their soldiers to walk like this? The thought strikes her as funny, and she is glad for the split second of quiet it gives her before she returns to the present. There is nothing about this situation that is funny. It hurts in a million different ways, and she’s taken to ignoring all the ways it hurts that she can’t easily understand. It’s easier that way, less messy.

_Emotional attachment only ends in pain._

A lesson she had learned as a child, something her parents reinforced throughout her life. Not only was becoming emotionally attached a danger, it made you blind to an obvious potential enemy, but being wounded in the upper echelons of Tevinter society was as dangerous as lying on a battlefield as you slowly bled out. Something tugs at her, trying to connect that lesson to the present. And Maker did it connect well. Too well. She’d never meant it to get this far, to let her walls down around  _anyone_. She can practically hear her mother,  _stupid, stupid girl_.

When he finally stops Vanora slows, standing off to the side and staring at where he’s brought her. She recognizes the place all too well, and her throat tightens—it was where they had danced. Such a silly thing to do, and yet it had been so enjoyable. Now that pleasant memory was sure to fade. Nothing good came from the words ‘we have to talk.’ It only ever ended poorly. Maretus doesn’t move at first, and she wonders why. He’d picked the damn place. Anger bubbles up quietly, and she realizes that she is mad at him for picking this place. Of all the quiet, secluded places in Skyhold he had to come  _here_ , to ruin one of the few physical places that represented good things.

She takes a deep breath and holds it, slowly expelling it when he finally moves forward into the room. He doesn’t look at her, even when she’s stepped inside the ruined room. The space that had once been filled with good things, with smiles and barely concealed laughter when they messed up, was now silent and hollow as a freshly dug grave. Where she a lesser person she would have left, slipped silently out and never turned back. But she wasn’t weak, and even if everything about this felt dangerously wrong she at least owed it to Maretus to hear him out.

So she waits until he speaks. Her name sounds wrong, his voice all hoarse and scratchy, and it makes her eyes widen slightly as her stomach clenches. Whatever he has to talk about it is worse than she feared. Men like him didn’t sound so close to breaking over trivial things. He takes a moment to compose himself, and the next time he speaks her name is steadier. The tension in the room is palpable, waiting to be broken by his words. And then he speaks and her whole world turns upside down.

Vanora manages to keep the look of pure shock and horror off her face, but she can’t do anything about her skin paling.  _I know who you are._  If she was Varric she could laugh and play it off, “ _I should hope so! We’ve known one another long enough_.” But she is not Varric, and even if she tried to pass it off she knows it would get her nowhere. The fury had ebbed from his face, and Vanora is surprised to see nearly no trace of it. He just looks hurt, and it makes her feel like she’d been stabbed right through the heart, even as her stomach drops. She’s never seen him look like this, look  _wounded_. Even when he’d nearly died, he’d looked nothing like this, and it makes her sick knowing that it is her who has caused his features to contort in such a sorrowful way.

Neither of them speak, though he is clearly waiting for her to reply to his accusation. Technically he hasn’t given her any specifics about what he knows. He could know that she was from Tevinter, could know that she was a mage…or maybe he knew everything. Tragically, she suspects it is the latter, and her jaw clenches for a moment. There’s a knee jerk reaction to throw his name and title back at him, a way of letting him know that she isn’t the only one who’s lied about herself. But it is cruel to do when she doesn’t know the extent of his knowledge.

Her mouth opens, then closes again, and she finds she cannot put words together. She, who always had a calm, well phrased response, cannot find the words. How many times had she thought about such a situation? One where she would have to assuage the fears of people who may have caught on? Many times, but those people weren’t Maretus, weren’t people she’d let in. Finally, she takes a slow breath to calm the insane beating of her heart.

“Ah…” she says, her words sounding calm, like a teacher who knew that their student would eventually draw this conclusion, “This isn’t quite how I imagined telling you. But…I suppose lying to a kinsman now would be pointless. I imagine you have…questions. Lots of them. Hopefully I can answer them without that fury of yours rearing its head again.”

* * *

 

_Kinsman._

The word, coupled with her tone–a tone that confirms to him that she’s always held all the cards and it was only out of sheer luck he learned anything true about her at all–it flips a small switch in him somewhere.

“Kinsmen,” he says once, then barks out a rough laugh as if the notion was some sort of inside joke.

The fractures are all still there, but they aren’t threatening to break him anymore. He isn’t blindingly angry again, not by any means, but instead now holds a controlled indignation as a hot coal in his throat, burning his words as he speaks.

“Kinsmen,” Maretus repeats, and when he says it this time, it comes out sounding like an insult. “We are no kinsmen, and you know it.” There is venom in his words, and they bite into him just as much on their way out. His gaze levels with hers, the amber in his alight with fire in the dappled sun of the room. “You are an  _altus_ , Vanora. I  _know_.”

It both amuses and rankles him to hear her call him as such–yes, and it stings, too.  That she knows him to be soporati and still call him thus, she either is trying to placate him with flattery or… Or she actually respects him as an equal. But an altus seeing a soporati as their equal? He was more competent and talented than the majority of those who he had to answer to, and sometimes painfully notably so, and yet  _still_  he rose only as high as he could being born without magic. It was a prestigious rank, he could not deny that–nor would he–and while it was one he well-deserved, were he born otherwise he would have risen higher.

Unbidden, the words from the letter resurface in his mind– _Talk to Vanora, feel her out, see if she can’t be reasoned with. It would be a great relief to have her return to us_ –and very suddenly a thought occurs to him. What if he did what the letter asked? There are several very obvious, veiled threats in it, of that there is no doubt, but… what if he convinced her to go back? What if he escorted her back himself? With such a House as Tiberius, would they be able to afford him clemency? To not live his life on the run? He made his choice to abandon his station, but now… now that he is faced with such a decision and staring at a powerful altus in of herself, he wonders if he  _would_  go back if he could. 

What if it didn’t mean death for him?

Aside from the backstabbing political maneuvering and non-military incompetence directing them much of the time, he did enjoy his life in the Legion. And he was  _good_  at it. It might be too much to ask for his old rank back, but if he could start again, rise up through the ranks just as quickly–or more so–as before…

His breath catches and he forces such thoughts to a halt. Is he truly considering returning if it becomes a serious option open to him? Perhaps it wouldn’t be as bad as before–even in the Imperium, much can change in a decade. He has changed in that time, becoming far more tempered than he was before, and, perhaps, more able to deal with all the things he couldn’t imagine living with when he was younger.

But.

Looking at Vanora’s face, seeing the subtle markers of terror flicker across them for the span of a dragonfly wings’ beat–and realizing now that he knows her well enough, has spent enough time watching her that he automatically picks up on these minute flashes–pushing beyond his immediate knee-jerk reaction of soporati versus altus… Maretus’ eyes search hers, narrowing, trying to decide why she called him  _kinsman_. Was it a slip, some southern vernacular that embedded itself and stripped it of the meaning it had back in their homeland? Was she patronizing him, trying to placate him and save her own skin? Or…

In that instant, he decides.

Reaching behind his hip to his belt, he unfastens the toggle holding a pouch closed and draws out the wrinkled letter he got only a little over a week ago. Extending his hand to her, offering it, his eyes never leave hers, never slacken in their intensity. He feels steadier inside now, the tumultuousness within him calmed, and his hand does not shake.

“ _Your_  kinsman,” he says, his voice nearly a growl though his face is no longer contorted in anger and is under his full control again, “plots something against you, I think.”

* * *

 

Apparently her choice of words either amuses or offends Maretus—she cannot tell which initially. When he throws it back in her face like an insult it becomes clear that ‘kinsman’ had somehow offended him. Her brows furrow slightly, the woman about to ask how she could have possibly upset him right off the bat, when he addresses her.  _Really_  addresses her. Brows knitting together she frowns, contemplating for a moment how he’d managed to learn so much in such a short time. A tiny, delusional flicker of hope lights in her chest. Maybe he doesn’t know  _everything_. If she can tell him the rest, explain things, there is a chance that he might not hate her forever. Even the thought that he might hate her, that he probably does already, frightens and scares her all at once. I hurts to think that negligence, complacency and, yes, a bit of fear had created this whole mess.

“Yes, you know what I am. An altus. If you’ve followed the breadcrumbs that far then I’m sure you know the rest as well. But do not spit that word at me like it is some sort of pestilence, Maretus. I cannot change who I was born anymore than you can; it does not change the fact that we are kin.”

She is frustrated and hurt. Was one title enough to make him hate her? Did her marking as an altus make her repugnant? One word and he was done with her? Tossing aside everything they’d shared because his was soporati and she an altus? The frustration shifts to anger, mixed between Maretus and, predominantly, the ridiculous caste system of Tevinter that made enemies of everyone above or below you. For a moment she is silent, taking a breath to steady herself and calm her face.

“What I’ve done is cruel, unfair, and selfish. I should have told you weeks ago,  _months_  ago about who I was. I imagine you can understand why I wouldn’t want to share my history and position with just anyone…even if that person was the  _Legator Legarem_  of the  _Perivantium Legion_.”

Vanora knows that her explanation could very well fall on deaf ears, that this revelation has ruined everything, but if it has then she at least wants to get this all off her chest. Even if it means nothing to him, changes nothing, she will have the peace of mind that she made her thoughts and feelings known.

“Time wore on, and we grew closer. Everything got so comfortable, so routine…and I wasn’t sure how to tell you. Because I  _did_  want to tell you, for a painfully long time. You’re the only person I’ve ever  _wanted_  to tell, the only one I trusted not to judge me too harshly or turn me in.”

It is uncomfortable to do this, to say these things, to reveal her inner thoughts and feelings. It is not in her nature to share herself this way, though she has found that she has shared herself in many other ways with Maretus. He is the only one he has let in, who she has trusted beyond the borders of Tevinter…and, if she’s being honest with herself, even within. Maretus is a singularity, an unfathomable deviation in everything she has known herself to be.

“I don’t know how to explain this…it is not in my nature to…share myself. Trust is not something easily gained, particularly for me, and when I realized that I trusted you, that I…”

She pauses again, rubbing her eyes as she tries to string the thoughts together again in a manner that is less confusing. Why did he get to say so little and now she had to say so much? Because she had more to explain. So much more to explain.

“I am genuinely sorry that I have hurt you, whether you choose to believe it or not. To know that I’ve hurt you because I find it nearly impossible, even now, to break my habits…I feel sick over it. There are more things to say, more to explain, but…I suppose for now this will have to do. And if you want more answers than this, you have but to ask.”

No more questions come. Instead he reaches for the pouch on his belt, pulling out a piece of parchment and handing it to her in one fluid motion. Glancing between the paper and his face, trying to judge what is going on in his head, she hesitantly reaches her hand out. Their fingers brush as the parchment is exchanged between them, and Vanora does her best to ignore the brief spark of warmth. Opening the letter she begins to read. Just like the letters that had come for her she reads this one once, twice, then another for good measure. The wear on the parchment suggested that Maretus himself had read it plenty of times, and why shouldn’t he have? It was shocking.

With the words sinking in her earlier discomfort ebbs, anger welling up in it’s place. No, not anger,  _rage_. White hot rage blinds her for a moment, fingers tightening on the parchment that she’s still staring at. How  _dare_  he. Oh, but he would pay for this, for ruining the only good that she’d experienced in ten years. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.

“Vile,  _spineless worm_.”

She spits the words at the paper, as though the letter might somehow transmit the curse to it’s author. Shoving the paper back at Maretus, her mind churning like clockwork as she begins formulating a plan, she tries not to glare at him. It isn’t him that she’s angry with, he’s done nothing wrong. Anyone else would have given her up, would have killed her themselves even.

“How long do we have?”


	4. Chapter 4

**iv.**

Her words strike a chord in him–several, in fact, but he can’t find the words to say that to her. She’d always wanted to tell him? She–no, he couldn’t be surprised that she knew his old rank. He never had made any attempts to hide his heritage and he was sure she had plenty of contacts who could tell her thus. Maretus wouldn’t have been surprised to find out she’d known who he was all along, and that thought hits something in him, echoing a little. If she had known all this time, she could have sent word back to Tevinter at any point about him, but she hadn’t.

They  _had_  grown close and comfortable, hadn’t they?

These secrets of themselves they kept, of course Maretus concealed his because it meant his death, but he doesn’t know what Vanora’s meant for her. She hadn’t said, and he does want to know… but so much has been crammed into such a short time, he hasn’t been able to take the time to process it all. So much has been dredged up, and there are also new, somewhat uncomfortable ideas he doesn’t know how to handle. He doesn’t feel right pressing her more about his curiosity, or even starting to dissect what everything means to him. At least… not right now.

Even with all the world-rocking revelations that had overtaken the last week, he feels more at ease now that he’s said something, now that he’s shown her the letter that started this all. It was festering inside him, and it would have consumed him if he hadn’t been able to tell her.  And, it provided a concrete goal to attain, something to deal with, so he could allow everything he now knew, everything she said, to sink in and have time to percolate before trying to figure anything more complicated out. After the skulking about trying to gather information and the uncomfortable awkwardness around her, it feels like a breath of fresh air to have a simple task before him.

Her anger surprises him–not that he didn’t expect her to be, but the ferocity of it makes him draw in a breath. She was normally so cool and collected, to see that sort of focus directed into fury is… exhilarating in a way. To see a glimpse of the driving energy beneath the calm exterior she maintains makes something in his chest swell.

He takes the paper from her and puts it back into the pouch it came from, fastening the toggle closure again. Yes, there still is much to sort through, but he is glad she moves directly on to what to do with this Septimus, whom, he notes, she does appear to know. It helps him move closer back to feeling normal with her, to keep at bay the strange emotions that are beginning to surface within him.

“Six days, at the most. Though, I am not certain if he is counting by when he sent the letter or when I received it, so it may be far less.” His eyes search her face. “What do you think he intends to do when his fortnight is up? Come after you? I suspect he wishes to overtake your birthright and lay his own claim to your House, yes?” 

The unspoken question of why the heir to a seat in the Magisterium left Tevinter and hid her identity so thoroughly is on the tip of his tongue, but he swallows it back. Either he will find out through the course of this, or it is something he will choose ask later. Even now, with knowing who and what she is, Maretus finds he cannot maintain anger or prejudice against her–he  _knows_  her, a very adamant part of his brain tells him. She revealed much of herself without any other prompting, and that, evidently, was the correct thing to do, as it spoke volumes of respect and trust and, perhaps strangely, honesty to him.

When the time comes that leaves them with too much time and they have to face all the questions inside them, Maretus decides he will answer whatever questions she has for him and his past. If she does so for him, it is only fair and right. And… he wants to. He wants her to know. That is not a notion or feeling he delves too deeply in thought over at the moment, pushing it aside with all the others to deal with later.

* * *

 

 

Everything will have to wait to be dealt with. There would be time to sit and talk,  _really_  talk, when this matter was handled. For if Septimus moved without intervention Vanora suspected that they would have no time, the game would be over. Her hands tighten once more, nails digging into her palms before she forces her fist open, one finger at a time. Flexing her hand to let the blood back into her fingers, banishing the white from her knuckles, she finally lifts her gaze up to Maretus.

There is something in his eyes she cannot place, and it makes her chest tighten, but she can spend time trying to decode the look on his face later. Right now it is more important to deal with Septimus’ letter. Conveniently it provides another way to ignore the true weight of their conversation, to provide a temporary barrier between those feelings and the present. Lips drawn tight she taps her fingers against her thigh, shaking her head when Maretus speaks up.

“Six days?  _Hah_. He probably started counting down when he began to pen the letter. I only met him a handful of times, but Septimus was never very patient. Spoiled brat, always wanted things  _now_. He’s related peripherally by women, so his claim isn’t the strongest, but without me present…”

She trails off, shaking her head and lifting a hand to rub at her temple. She can already feel the start of a headache creeping up on her. Dropping her hand Vanora’s fingers resume their movement, tapping a pattern into her thigh as she exhales sharply, a wry smile twisting her lips.

“Yes, yes. That much is obvious. Clearly the man is still incompetent if it’s taken him this long to fulfill such an intense desire.  _Pathetic_. But there are things in place at home to prevent such a coupe. My father is still alive, and as long as I am still his named heir and presumed alive then Septimus will have to play the Magisterium exceptionally well…which he won’t.”

Turning on her heel she takes to pacing the small room, stepping over the debris in her way and staring at the walls. There will be much to do in order to deal with this plot. Even if Septimus isn’t the cleverest creature in the Imperium, he is still a threat that she would have to handle. And quickly if they only had six days at most.

“If he wants my place he needs proof that I am either unfit to take over the house or dead. Either way it involves tracking me down. Now that his plan to have you turn me in or kill me yourself has failed, well, he’ll have backups in place. I don’t doubt that he’s hired someone to kill me, whether I flee or stay put.”

Here she pauses, turning back to Maretus, the frown still firmly in place.

“And when he has my head, proof of my death that would be impossible to deny, he’d have you killed as well. You would be a loose end, a liability, and once you had served your purpose he would have no more need of you.”

It’s harsh and the idea of Maretus being dispatched so carelessly greatly upsets her, but she knows it is the way Septimus would see things. It is the way anyone in the Imperium would see things if they were concocting such a scheme. Even someone so spoiled and undisciplined would know to clean up the mess that would be left behind.

“…so we just need to spot an assassin in Skyhold.”

She laughs at the statement, a dry noise that is almost more a huff then a laugh. Rolling her eyes at the very idea of it she crosses her arms, attention focused once more on Maretus.

“You don’t happen to know how to do that, do you? Some sort of specialized Legion training?”

It comes out teasing, more lighthearted than she’d expected it, and the frown lightens into the ghost of a smirk.

“I think it’s time for me to write a letter of my own. There’s an old friend of mine nearby who owes me a favor. And a raven or two to the north along the Imperial Highway…what do you think? You’re the military man, after all. I imagine the way you handle a potential threat is a little different than mine.”

* * *

 

When their eyes catch, Maretus feels something shift inside him, something clicking into place. It is a subtle thing, buried beneath the urgency of the letter, but it is there all the same. He’s finding very quickly he enjoys watching her mind work in such rapid fire. Sure, of course they’d had plenty of conversations over a variety of topics, and he always found her intellectually stimulating, but this is different. This is watching someone slide into their element and move about with grace.

The sharp fright that she is an altus somehow, because it’s her, heightens his enjoyment of watching her. It must be because he’s known her for so long as simply Vanora, his friend and the Inquisition healer, not Vanora Tiberius, altus and heir to a seat in the Magisterium. Already his mind recoils less at the thought and her official title than only a day ago.

When she points out that his death is likely in this plot Septimus has been planning, Maretus nods, pushing aside the strong urge to smooth out the frown from her face.

“Of course he would. But my life has already been forfeit for nearly a decade now–as you well know. I am the greatest liability if he were to succeed in removing you.” His face darkens. “Though, I would like to know how he managed to trace both of us down. I am curious, what are the two ravens along the Imperial Highway for? Your family?”

He pauses, thinks for a moment while listening to the steady drumming of her fingers against her thigh. “We had a special detail training in the Legion to protect Magisters and other important altus from non-magical assassination attempts,” he recalls, sifting through his memories. “It can be difficult to spot a good assassin before they make their attempt, so much of our training was on vigilance and quick reactions. That and being a constant presence to our wards. The intent being to spot the assassin with enough time to dispatch them.”

He almost wants to pace, but watching her do so serves to the same purpose, and so he stands at ease, moving only to lift a hand and rub at his chin through his beard thoughtfully.

“My guess is that you’ve been followed for some time, likely since before Haven. The skill of the assassin all depends on who he could afford, in reality. Might even possibly be the person who’s been following you,” he continues, the dust shaking off the military part of his mind. “Have you seen anyone familiar while here or in Haven? Someone you don’t necessarily know, but whose face seemed inexplicably familiar?”

Eyes still on her, his mind whirrs with the beginnings of a plan, though he’s not certain how she will take it. “Protocol would be to change your quarters with no warning, without even indicating you aren’t still staying in your usual rooms and going about your usual routine. From what you’ve insinuated about this Septimus, we very likely have far less than six days. He might have already sent his assassin on the move. It might… be prudent to change where you are sleeping and spending your nights–immediately. I–” he hesitates, wavering, but then clears his throat softly and continues. “I suggest somewhere close to my quarters. I was trained in this type of detail, and can provide you more than adequate protection.”

* * *

 

Of course Maretus’ life was forfeit. This was a fact he would have known the moment he stepped outside of Tevinter and deserted the military. It doesn’t mean that she has to like the idea of it, or like that he seems so accepting of it. Some day, when all this was dealt with and they did manage to have that long chat that was waiting for them, she would have to ask him why he’d left in the first place. Doubtlessly he would want to know the same for herself. It would be a long conversation indeed. The suggestion that she might be contacting her family almost makes her laugh,  _really_  laugh, but she settles for a short, sharp noise of amusement.

“My family? Maker, no. They won’t be involved until I’m at the door of the estate asking for a nice hot bath and something to eat. The ravens would be for two of the contacts I still have north of here. One of them is in the heart of Nevarra, and the other is in Orlais. I’ve known them a while, and they’re still reliable sources of information. As for how Septimus finally found me,  _us_ , I’m sure he finally found one of my lost contacts. I don’t delude myself into believing that they’ll be loyal to me until the end. Certainly some are more loyal than others, but money is an incentive that is hard to turn down.”

Although her question had come out a more a teasing comment than anything else, Vanora is relieved to hear that he does in fact have some background training in this sort of situation. It’s not a surprise that the Legion didn’t teach ‘how to avoid being assassinated when undercover in a sociopolitical movement’ as a basic class. With her mind for politics and his military knowledge, Vanora felt confident that they would be able to handle the situation. And if all else failed perhaps Leliana would find out the assassin and deal with them.

Vanora nods as he speaks, taking in what he’s saying. When she isn’t staring, half unfocused, at the ground before her, she’s looking up at him as she moves, watching him think. Now that he’s talking about how to prevent one’s assassination it all seems so  _obvious_. But she knows that it is a set of tasks exponentially harder to accomplish than to say. There are so many people within Skyhold, and so much work to do, it makes her dizzy thinking about how she could maintain such external focus while still functioning normally. She couldn’t exactly spend all her time shadowing Maretus or vice versa. As impossible as it is the idea makes her smirk for a moment, trying to envisioning how that might even work. Ridiculous, but she could think of things far worse than spending all her time with Maretus.

When he questions her Vanora turns her head to him, slowing her pacing and shaking her head.

“I’m afraid that’s a bit of a pointless question, Maretus. I knew just about everyone at Haven, and I know all the ones who lived through it. I was busy stitching them all back together in the snow. Beyond that, I don’t spend much time outside the tower, and there are so many faces in and out of there every day. If I’m not working I’m more likely to be tucked away somewhere quiet or off with you.”

Finally she stops moving, fingers still tapping against her thigh, but content to stand still instead of pace the room. With some amorphous sense of a plan in her head there doesn’t seem to be much point running around. The strongest of all her emotions have ebbed and her focus has been rerouted completely to the task at hand. Changing her rooms seems like a logical choice, and if Maretus said it was the best first step than she believed it. Make it seem like she was still sleeping in the tower, but slip off somewhere else. It’s the suggestion he provides that gives her pause.

“Maretus, are you inviting me to sleep in your room?”

It’s a bit sassy and slips out of her mouth before she even realizes that she’d thought about saying it. But now that it’s out there she smirks, raising an eyebrow and content to take a moment to tease him and lighten the oppressive atmosphere.

“I certainly don’t know where else I would go. Picking another room in the tower doesn’t seem prudent. So, if you’re offering me a spot…”

* * *

 

Nodding at her explanation of the two ravens, he says, “Ah, yes, that makes more sense. I suppose… you would have your fair share of contacts, even still. Possibly especially still.” A thought strikes him. “Is there any way you might be able to get information on him?” But, as soon as he says it, he knows it’s a ridiculous idea, and then shakes his head. “No–I doubt we have enough time for that, even if you did have someone who could easily report on him. Forget I said anything.”

He taps fingers against his lips in thought as she continues her pacing, though slower and less agitated now than she was before. She has a point–of course she would have seen the majority of everyone in Haven, especially after its destruction and their treacherous trek through the freezing cold and snow to Skyhold. Even despite her and her team of healers’ best efforts, they lost too many people before reaching the safety of the old mountain fortress.

“Of course,” he agrees, though mildly irritated he hadn’t thought of that factor. “Most faces would be familiar to a healer.”

But her admission that she was just as likely to be with him as to be by herself catches him off guard, and her next statement sends his heart stuttering and pounding in his chest. He hadn’t meant to imply anything salacious, and was afraid she’d take it that way–so startled is he that he misses her teasing tone.

“I didn’t mean to suggest– I never intended– That is, I only thought it’d be safer, with my training, to be closer, I just–” He stammers, blood rushing through hot ears in embarrassment, because he had to admit the thought  _did_  cross his mind, albeit briefly, of how enjoyable her closer proximity would be. Maretus clears his throat and hopes she can’t hear the loudness of his heart.

“It’s just that it would be easier to protect you if need be, and there  _are_  empty suites near mine not connected to them in any way, though I  _do_  have at least one adjoining room I don’t use for anything that would be suitable as well–” His eyes widen slightly as he realizes what he’s just said and he barrels on quickly. “Not that I’m saying you should take those. But wherever is comfortable for you. For all I know my quarters are just as susceptible, especially considering the letter was secreted in there without my knowledge.”

* * *

 

Vanora is grateful that he doesn’t have a pragmatic answer in reply to her jest. If he did, she would have been put in a very uncomfortable situation. There is something markedly different when they joke this way, when the teasing is of a more  _personal_  nature. Were she more insular or naive she would have thought it was just the way of things, saucier jokes being uncomfortable between men and women. But it is a different dynamic with Maretus, and though she has an idea of why, she is afraid to give it a name.

There is something incredibly endearing about Maretus when he gets flustered, but it is particularly winsome this time around. Apparently she’s thrown him off so badly that his ears are turning red. There is something boyish about him in those moments while he is grasping for something to say, when he is very much out of his element in a realm where they are both novices. She barely manages to stifle a giggle, lips closed tight together in an effort not to smile. It doesn’t last long, and she loses the fight.

Maybe it is cruel but Vanora cannot help herself—she laughs. Not in a condescending manner, but an unadulterated sound of amusement. Smile on her face she reaches out, instinctively grabbing his arm with one of her hands.

“Maretus,  _relax_.”

How strange a situation they find themselves in. First a conversation that could have ruined everything they had, then a life and death situation, and now this. Laughter and teasing and poor, darling Maretus blushing like a school boy. What a series of head spinning events.

“I am only teasing, I don’t think you were suggesting that you wanted me literally in your bed.”

Although she found the idea alarmingly appealing.

“I wasn’t aware that you had a suite. If there is an empty room and you don’t mind an invasion of your personal space, then I would be pleased to leave my things in there and sneak off to your rooms at night.”

The wording is intentional this time and Vanora does her best not to smirk, or acknowledge the fact that her hand is still on his arm.

* * *

 

For a split instant when she laughs, he is mortified, thinking he’s turned into the butt-end of a joke, but then almost as immediately realizes she is not being serious with him. And then she grabs his arm, her slender fingers wrapping gracefully around the muscle of his forearm, the pressure of them unusual and… welcome through the cloth of his tunic.

His heart still thuds in his chest, but when she tells him to relax, that she is only teasing him, he finds he does so, even if only a little. The mortification vanishes, at any rate, and Maretus feels a smile spread across his face–not as wide as hers, but matching all the same.

Of course, now that’s she’s said the words  _I don’t think you wanted me in your bed_  they rattle around in his head, refusing to be banished. Briefly, he entertains the idea– _does he?_ –but as soon as he discovers what a winding and treacherous path that would be to go down, he firmly presses such a question back with the rest of the things they had to deal with once the immediate threat of their lives was dealt with and no longer present. What a whirlwind of problems that letter has started, but what a convenient excuse it provides at the same time to put difficult thoughts and untangled emotions off until some later point.

Now that he knows she is teasing him, he has much more control over his reaction to not start babbling again like an unblooded idiot, which he very much feels like.

“It is not entirely empty, per se, but it can be easily made so, but…” He furrows his brow a little, allowing his face to fall sober again. “Now that you mention my bed itself, that would be possibly the safest place for either of us…” Continuing with his false seriousness, Maretus closes his eyes for a brief time and nods as if this was the best idea either of them had come up with yet, even go so far as to place his opposite hand over hers that she still holds his arm with. Her fingers are cool beneath his own and he allows himself a small moment to focus on them before pushing past the pleasant feel of them.

“Yes, I think that might be best. Have no worries, Vanora, it is large enough to accommodate both of us, and I do not snore or toss and turn overmuch at night. Though,” he lifts his eyes up to hers now and, finally, his voice tinges with amusement and he cannot keep the smile from his eyes and one corner of his mouth curls up of its own accord, revealing at last that he is jesting with her, “I fear I do sprawl quite a bit.”

* * *

 

Vanora can see the shift from shock, and perhaps a little embarrassment, to the realization that she is teasing dawning on his face. He seems to be relieved by the knowledge she is only joking. Were the tables turned she would have certainly been shocked. More so, since Maretus wasn’t exactly the most prone to joking or teasing.

“If it’s not already empty I can always find–”

Her insistence that she’s more than capable of finding an empty room that was already empty, even if it could very well not be  _that_  close to Maretus’ suite, is cut off by his returned suggestion that she stay in his bed. Strictly for the purpose of safety. The smile on her face threatens to get even wider, but she manages to keep it at a reasonable level.

Attention flickering briefly to his hand on her own, then back up at his face, she tries valiantly to ignore the light, fluttering feeling that wells up somewhere between her ribs and stomach. Instead she turns her attention to making her face somber and serious, matching the serious look on his face. These were vital parts of their plan to avoid assassination, there was no room for laughter and teasing here. Biting back her urge to laugh again, her face calm and serious, she nods slowly.

“Yes, I think you are quite right. An exceedingly insightful point. We must  _both_  be safe, and what better place than tucked into one bed. Then we shall be certain nothing happens to the other while we’re sleeping.”

When his ‘all business’ demeanor finally cracks, hers does as well. She fights back a smile, managing to keep it to a smirk as she nods again, voice still measured and grave.

“Ah, well, I am we can find a way to make it work. As you said, there’s plenty of room for the both of us. I believe I can handle some renegade limbs. Not to mention that our chances of catching cold will be much reduced.”

Now she gives in to the desire to smile, the entire thing sounding simultaneously ridiculous and not altogether unpleasant. Even if it meant getting all tangled up in Maretus’ limbs. Even that didn’t sound so bad. Setting the strange string of thoughts aside she sets her other hand atop Maretus’, forming a little pile of hands as she sighs.

“You are so wise. What would I do without you?”

* * *

 

What a strange day this has turned out to be. If someone had told him he’d start it out furious at and frightened of the closest person to him, then have it flip around to be making jokes of sharing a bed with her, he would have never believed them and walked away thinking they were delusional.

He lets out a soft chuckle to her question. “Hopefully fare just as well as before you met me.”

It feels both strange and good to joke with Vanora. Strange, because a part of him is still reeling from the fact that she is an altus, though that, to his surprise, is heavily off-set by his history with her. Caught between wanting to go back and ignore he now knows this about her so they could continue on as they have been, and knowing that things could never be the same between them, and the uncertainty of this new territory, Maretus slowly extracts his hand from beneath hers, though he makes no move to remove her other one from his arm.

“All jesting aside,” he says, bringing the tone back to true seriousness, “there is an extra room I have used to store auxiliary weapons and armor that can be easily cleared for your use. It has its own door and is on the opposite side of the suite as my bedroom, so you will have all the privacy you need. Still close enough, however, that a quick shout will get me there in a few seconds.”

Wheels turning in his mind again and feeling pleased he has something to do and focus on, Maretus runs logistics through his head. “The trick will be making it seem as if nothing has changed, which will take some doing, as my quarters are nearly opposite yours in the tower.”

He glances down at her hand still on his arm, out of thought more than anything else. “If we knew more about when an assassin might strike, we could lay a trap for them–I could wait in your room for them and catch them unawares. As it is, I dislike merely watching and waiting without some sort of proactive plan.”

Frowning slightly, bringing his eyes up to Vanora’s again, he is obviously rolling several potentials over in his mind.

“I do not know how you feel about remaining and waiting and relying on your letters and contacts, but we might perhaps seek to outmaneuver Septimus and go on the offensive instead. Send your letters, and then simultaneously take the attack to him, as the case may be. Though…” He hesitates, now unsure. “I am not skilled in subtle political or extended familial machinations, as I am sure is painfully evident, and thus do not know if a more direct method would even be worthwhile considering. So, I will defer to your final say in what you think is the best course of action for us to take, and in the meanwhile endure you remain alive and safe. You know best what he might do, after all.”

He shifts slightly, crooking his arm a bit more and dipping his head. Though he also brings his other hand up to touch his chest, it is a similar but subtly different manner than she’s seen him do before–an open palm rather than fingertips. This action speaks more of a pledge being given than any kind of formal farewell.

“I will be your sword should the need arise.”

* * *

 

Of course they need to refocus their attention. The brief banter has been a welcome means to break the tension in the air and, perhaps, take a tenuous first step towards finding some sense of normalcy again. If Maretus really hated her she doubted he would be inclined to play around for a moment. His hand slips out from between hers and a little pang of something that feels like disappointment rings out in her ribs. Her top hand moves when his does, but her other remains curled gently around his forearm.

“So long as I’m not causing you any substantial inconvenience I would be quite happy to take up residence in the adjoining room. Surreptitiously, of course.”

It doesn’t surprise Vanora that Maretus is uncomfortable with the idea of sitting and waiting, biding their time until the assassin made their move. He’s a soldier, being forward in some sort of life threatening situation seemed much more plausible than sitting back and waiting. Though she was sure he knew when such strategy was necessary…even if he didn’t like it.

Even she isn’t particularly keen on waiting about, trying to act as though nothing has changed when the reality is quite the opposite. The delicate dance of politics was an ongoing chess game, and the stakes climbed ever higher. But this was not a chess game she had been invited to. It was one that had been thrust upon her without giving her her pieces. To say it was uncomfortable to be so in the dark would be a monumental understatement. The fact that it was not only her life that hung in the balance only furthered her unease. She has to remind herself that she’d been in sticky situations before this…though she cannot call to mind any that were this dire.

Giving him a gentle smile she squeezes his forearm before letting it go.

“Neither of us want to wait for something to happen, particularly without more substantial intelligence to make any sort of plan.”

The hand that had previously been on his arm falls now to her side, and she begins a slow tap against her thigh again as she weighs their options along with Maretus. There was no easy answer to this. Granted, most things in her world had no easy answers, but this was a particularly infuriating situation to be in.

“I’m afraid the political maneuvering of my relative is less a threat than the assassin that may or may not be here. I shall write my letters, and perhaps a few more to ensure nothing gets tricky at home, but it would be foolish to wait around and hope nothing happens. With any luck I shall hear back promptly and we’ll have better footing, but only fools place all their hope in one place.”

She lets out a breathy sigh and shrugs, shaking her head as she admits defeat on this front.

“But my strengths do not lay in the planning of physical encounters. I can maneuver myself through any sociopolitical situation I’m thrown into, but this is not something I ever learned. The first issue at hand, I imagine, is narrowing the field of possibilities…and perhaps getting someone to keep an eye out for any sorts of odd folks coming in to Skyhold.”

* * *

 

“No–no inconvenience at all. I–” He cuts himself off, takes a small breath, then begins again. “You’ve saved my life more times than I should probably care to admit, and…” His jaw clenches, and then he consciously relaxes it, swallows once. “And despite what might be expected… I do not wish to be rid of your company any time soon.”

He knows lately he’s been falling into a strange habit of only speaking in half-formed thoughts to her, which beyond being somewhat embarrassing and making him more than likely appear scatterbrained, also made him nervous. Maretus hasn’t sorted or figured out all his thoughts about her, and if he was only partially thinking before he opened his mouth around her, it very well might end unpleasantly for one or both of them if he said the wrong thing.

When she finally removes her hand, the gentle squeeze she gives him sends a mild shiver up the limb to skate up the back of his neck, raising the short hairs there beneath his curls. The spot on his arm where her hand has been all this while feels much colder now, and he is quite perturbed at how much he immediately misses her touch. 

He folds his arms across his chest to hide any wayward indication of that slipping through his actions, idly also tapping a few fingers of one hand on the opposite biceps. Frowning in thought at her words, his eyes stare into the empty space before him for several moments before he realizes he’s essentially staring at her knees.

Bringing his eyes up to Vanora’s face again, he nods a little, ideas churning in his head again. He lifts a hand to brush a knuckle thoughtfully against his lips. “There is something else we could do that might suit better while we impatiently await the replies once you send them. Instead of using my quarters… we could use yours. That way your routine wouldn’t change, and I am certain that yours is of much more interest than mine; I was only a way to get to you, after all.” 

Hand falling back to its place folded with the other, Maretus’ voice quickens as he takes more and more to the idea. “I don’t want to presume you’re all right with me staying in them with you, but if could see them, I would be better able to figure out the best vantage point for possible entry, and stake a lookout to wait and watch while we are forced to do the same. But, if you have no objections to me sleeping on your floor, I can also be immediately present if an assassin shows up before we receive any more information to decide our next move.”

* * *

 

That he does not wish to be rid of her any time soon comes as a great relief, and she finds that she can breathe a bit easier knowing that at the end of this he won’t loathe her. Although she’s not sure she can say how things will turn out at the end of this all, and there is no way for things to  _truly_  return to how they were before, there is the chance that they will still be close. They will make it out of this, and they will still be friends.

_…or…maybe, just maybe…more_

The unbidden thought shocks her. Clearly the torrent of change that has rained down upon the both of them has set her mind spinning. Her gaze lingers perhaps a hair too long on his face and she shakes the thought from her mind.  _Focus. Keep those ridiculous daydreams far from your mind._

Instead of lingering any longer on that trail of thought Vanora turns her attention to the question of room arrangements. The arrangement was practical, but it did not change the fact that it was kind as well. It was evident to Vanora that Maretus’ anger about her lies ran deeper than a feeling of betrayal. 

“Very well. Then we can see to the minute, technical details over supper perhaps.”

Nothing can be simple it seems, not now, not ever, and soon his plan has changed. With talk of room sharing Vanora had thought briefly to offer up her own room. While it is certainly smaller than Maretus’ suite it did seem more easily fortified. If someone was coming for her they had an entire tower to climb and a bevy of people constantly in the place. Even at night the tower wasn’t devoid of life on the lower floors. Someone was always awake, just in case, and checking on any wards present. Regardless of it’s structural benefits she already feels bad over the idea of Maretus sleeping on her floor. The bed was cold enough, but a stone floor? The man would freeze sure as day. For a moment her mind flits back to the joke about sharing a bed. At least in the case of her room sharing a bed would more likely be a matter of life and death. Or the one thing preventing him from freezing to death. Then where would they be?

“My room is a more easily fortified position. At the top of the tower it is unlikely that someone could make it up to my room without alerting  _someone_. There is always a healer on duty to ensure nothing dire happens. You are welcome to share the room with me, but you best bring an army of blankets. I nearly freeze to death up there with two heavy blankets on the bed. If you’re quite set on taking the floor I would prefer not having you catch your death.”

The smirk returns for a moment as she speaks, “Unless this time you think sharing a bed would  _actually_  be helpful.”

She waves the comment off a moment later, “I tease, again. Though seeing about an extra mattress would make me feel better. Sleeping on stone is quite unpleasant, and I would very much like to keep you healthy.”

* * *

 

He thinks, perhaps, for a moment, she stares at him in a manner he’s never seen on her before–her expression an unguarded one for a breath, and a little shocked. Wetting his lips, his eyebrows wrinkle just the barest amount closer together, worrying that he had, in fact, said something wrong. In that instant of concern, it becomes very clear to him all of a sudden that he wants to say the  _right_  things to her, even if he doesn’t know what those are, or even what that might mean.

But, she doesn’t point anything out to him and doesn’t linger in conversation, so he tries–and mostly succeeds–to push the worry out of his mind.

Her concern for his well-being relaxes his face the rest of the way and even draws a smile out from him–and this time he at least isn’t caught off-guard by her teasing.

“I’m touched by your concern,” he says, keeping his tone light and hopefully not betraying the fact that he actually is touched by her worry for his well-being. “But even a cold stone floor is somewhat more comfortable than icy rock out in the open.” The crazed state of mind he was in on his way back from the scholar flashes through his memory, but he doesn’t mention any of that to her. Not only does he not want her to chide him for it, but he doesn’t want to explain why he ended up sleeping out in the open on the side of a mountain. Not… not yet, anyway. Perhaps once this the threat is over and they have more time.

“But,” he concedes quickly upon seeing the look on her face, “I will be sure to bring enough to keep myself warm. Though, unfortunately since we are attempting subterfuge, I fear a mattress is perhaps too obvious.”

Sensing her about to protest and argue her point, he holds up a hand. “I know you are the expert healer, and you know what’s best for a body’s health, but I am well seasoned in the art of discomfort, and I promise you sleeping on the stone floor for a few nights will do me no lasting harm. Though, you may have to put up with a little grumbling in the morning.” The smile lingers, amused.

Cocking his head to one side a little, he adds, “But… a extra fur rug or two would be less conspicuous than a whole other mattress, and I can certainly make myself more comfortable with them, if you insist upon seeing to that.”

He glances up at the broken roof above them, noting the slant and hue of the light. They’d spent the majority of the afternoon here, and dusk would be soon upon them. Lowering his gaze to her again, he says, “Shall we see to dinner, if you have nothing more that needs saying in private? I think tonight would be best to set our plans into motion. After eating, I will go back to my quarters to collect some things and then join you in the tower. Will… my presence there visiting you cause any issues, or raise any alarm? Should I find a less obvious way in?”

As soon as he asks that, the notion of a young man sneaking into a lady’s quarters for completely different reasons enters his mind and proves difficult to dislodge. That is  _not_  the reason, he firmly tells himself. They are not meeting for some scandalous liaison, but for reasons of keeping themselves alive and whole.  _But_ , a swiftly-becoming familiar voice when it comes to thoughts of Vanora says in the back of his mind, _even if it was, would it really be so scandalous?_  Maretus isn’t sure how to answer that question, or how, exactly, he feels about it.

* * *

 

Having a spot to sleep that was better than sleeping on a rock in the elements hardly made her feel better. There were plenty of things better than sleeping outside around Skyhold. Hell, they’d both ended up sleeping outside in the damn cold. This would be a non issue if they were both home. The cold nights there were a sharp contrast to the blazing heat of high noon, but compared to the weather here? It didn’t hold a candle to it. Not to mention how much easier this would be to deal with. A few well placed spies, guards on alert, and plenty of spare beds for Maretus to choose from. Her train of thought, sidetracked as it is, stops abruptly. If she went home…Maretus had deserted, and they both knew coming back would mean the end of him. Her chest tightens as her stomach knots. Facing the idea of going back home and Maretus being a world away makes her feel suddenly ill, and she endeavors to push that feeling away. There is enough to worry about in the present.

Now she is just getting ahead of herself, daydreaming about things that were in the future. Both she and Maretus still had to worry about fooling and dispatching an assassin. Then there would be more than enough time to talk about what the future might hold for one another, and what that would mean for them. Maretus has wisely begun placating her before she can so much as begin to chide him for such a horrible parallel. A day or two outside in the elements was one thing, but who knows how long on a freezing floor was another entirely. His attempt to placate her keeps her from immediately responding, but it does nothing to change the disapproving look on her face. 

“Hmph. If you’re going to be that stubborn then you’re welcome to grumble, you bring the discomfort down upon yourself.”

But he is right, though she doesn’t want to admit it now that she’s groused about it. Even bringing a mattress from one of the spare rooms beneath her would draw suspicion. Fur rugs she could do, or at least try to do. It would be much easier to bring up under the guise of freezing–nobody in the tower would question it. They all knew that she was no fan of the weather and had adjusted poorly to it.

“Very well, I’ll see about finding a few. I’ll ask one of the girls to track them down. They’d know better than I, and nobody would question it since I’m  _always_  cold. Damn mountain.”

So focused on the details of whose room to use and what sort of preparations would be necessary, Vanora hadn’t given much thought to how to get Maretus into her room. Getting to his was easier by far–there weren’t floors of people between him and his room. This would pose more of a problem. Pursing her lips in thought she shrugged, the hint of a smirk warping the thoughtful look on her face.

“Well, I’m sure someone is bound to notice eventually, or at least get a bit suspicious. The girls always need something to gossip about if they don’t believe whatever lie we concoct. But, realistically, if we stay at dinner long enough that it begins to clear out most of the other healers will have gone to their rooms. It will be much easier to get you upstairs then.”

As if to remind them that they’d been there quite a ways and that human necessities were still an issue Vanora’s stomach rumbles. With so many days barely eating from all this ridiculousness her appetite had apparently made a return.

“I believe that is our signal to go eat. We can talk more once I have some food. Apparently my appetite has finally reared its head after so many days of working too hard. Come on, then. Hopefully someone hasn’t taken over our table in our absence.”

“I do intend to be that stubborn, I thought you might have noticed that about me by now.” 

* * *

 

Maretus rubs thoughtfully at his chin, smoothing out the carefully maintained beard there. “What sort of story are you thinking of telling them? We may… Hm.” He stops, considering, then goes on. “You think it might be possible to not tell anyone anything and slip in unnoticed? Especially if I wait long enough to come in. The night detail I imagine is more a skeleton crew than the day unless there is an emergency, and I am confident I would be able to come in unnoticed if that is the case.”

Through his thoughts, her particular word choice of ‘ _eventually_ ’ sinks in, and he wonders just how long she expects this arrangement to be needed. And the next thought, that he doesn’t mind the idea of it being for more than a few days–even with knowing that sleeping on the floor wouldn’t be terribly comfortable for him after the first few nights–comes as the larger surprise. A sudden trail of thought winds its way through him, imagining what her room looks like, if she had mementos from home in it, or if she kept it fairly spartan as he does–and then immediately he quashes the thought. What was he doing wondering what her private quarters looked like?

They had far more important matters to tend to than him wondering what sorts of little luxuries she kept, or what colors he would find there that spoke of what appealed to her. Unbidden, the desire to find a replacement green dress for her  resurges again, and he suddenly imagines flashes of green mottling her room. It made sense for her, to him, a connection to her healing in some way with all the herbs she handles. But then he realizes he’s doing it again and stops himself. It feels almost… inappropriate to wonder such things, and he pushes them away.

“If someone has been spying on you, they could very well be one of your healers,” he adds. “In fact, I’d expect that. Very easy to keep an eye on you without having to find excuses to come by or find you. They might even be the assassin we anticipate.”

Before he can say much else, her stomach rumbles, and it reminds him he hasn’t been eating as he should lately, either.

A rueful smile tugs at his mouth. “I heartily agree–and hesitate to admit to my healer that I, too, have not been keeping up with meals as regularly as I should. It has been…. a trying few days.” To punctuate his point, he shifts his hand to lightly touch the pouch that houses Septimus’ letter.

“You’ll have to give me brief directions to your quarters.” Maretus motions to the door out of the room, indicating for her to lead the way out. “I know the general layout of the tower, but not specifically where I should go, and if there is a lesser traveled path–a back stairway, for example–that would also be helpful to know. Ideally, I’d like to slip in without anyone seeing me.”

* * *

 

Vanora spares a moment to give him an accusatory look, as though warning him not to try any such things while she’s around. Hypocritical, but it’s her job to fuss over people’s health. Particularly those closest to her with an affinity for losing track of time and forgetting the requirements of living. A conflicting set of feelings take her–a sense of relief that she isn’t the only one who’s been physically and mentally affected by this, and simultaneously upset that he hadn’t been eating. It had probably been a longer period as well if he’d had the letter almost a week. She certainly wouldn’t have been keen on eating or sleeping if she’d been carrying that around for a week. It’s a wonder that he was still going. Stubborn indeed, and rather resilient.

Her stomach grumbles again, quieter this time, and she finally moves to leave the room. The crumbling walls held more emotional memories than the rest of Skyhold combined, save perhaps the tavern that she began walking towards. There weren’t many people around, most likely off for supper, and they didn’t need to shout in order to chat about the details. Her gaze shifts over to him as he suggests not telling any story and she nods–she had been thinking more along the lines of coming up with a backup story in case someone got suspicious. Nobody needed to be alerted to the change in sleeping arrangements.

“Yes, of course. I meant some sort of cover story in case someone started sniffing around a little  _too_  much. Nobody needs to know anything. You’re right, though. It would come as no surprise to find that one of my healers, or someone frequently in the tower, was the source of information from Skyhold. It would be too obvious otherwise.”

Lacing her fingers together in front of her as she walks, Vanora nods at his inference. There were much people there in the evening, and there was another, quieter way in and out of the place.

“There is another door and a much smaller set of stairs in the back of the tower, on the east side closest to the outer wall. The stairway is tiny, but it’s not frequently used. Usually only during the day when things are busy and healers need to go up or down without getting in the way. Otherwise we all use the main stairs. Though it doesn’t go all the way up; it stops at the floor right below mine. Not as convenient, but safer for sneaking. If I’m going up the main staircase then no one would be the wiser.”

With the tavern in her sights Vanora finds her mood much improved. She’s hungry and the place has become something of a symbol of normalcy. When everything was upside down she spent no time there, but now that they were working things out it is back to being a comfortable place. At least she hopes it is.

“Once you’re at the top of the stairs you’ll have to go down the hallway to the stairs up to the floor I’m on. There’s a rather large door  and then two smaller ones. The larger door is to the small library we have, next to that is my room, and the last one is a storage cabinet. Lots of exciting things in there likes brooms and buckets, although there might be a blanket in there as well.”

She can see the door to the tavern now and unconsciously picks up her pace, glancing over to Maretus to make sure he’s heard it all. The instructions weren’t exactly complicated. If they’re lucky it will all go smoothly. The time he needs to get back to his room and gather her things should be more than enough to tidy up. 

* * *

 

This time when they walk, he matches his strides to hers so that he is the one that stays a few paces behind her and to the side, not enough that they’d have to raise their voices to talk, but in a more formal guard position. It is a habit from his days of serving as a guard for various nobles and merchant nobles to allow enough room for his sword to be drawn and used if need be. An unconscious positioning on his part, and an admission of his decision earlier to protect her. They were in this together after all.

It is an odd thing, to have been sucked into a plotting Tevinter noble’s treacherous aspirations to gain a greater foothold in a family with a seat on the Magisterium this far from Tevinter and with as many years away as he’s been. Even odder is the fact that he doesn’t feel the need to run at the mere notion of it. He isn’t sure if it’s because time and distance have made his old angers and grievances less an issue or better equipped him to not be hampered or overtaken by them, or because it’s Vanora, and with her comes all that they’ve been through together since they first met at Haven. It was less than a year ago, and yet seemed much longer with all that’s happened in the intervening time.

At her directions, he repeats them back to her, helping him remember them. “Smaller stairs in the back of the tower, east side–does it have an outside access, or is it only accessible from the inside? Either way it’s more convenient for our purposes even if it’s not otherwise.” The hardest part he could see would be using the main stair once the smaller access one ended a floor below where Vanora’s room was located, but he would cover that ground when he reached it. “Up a floor after that, first small door after the library.”

He pauses in talking while they pass a small cluster of merchants chatting as they strolled after closing up their stalls for the oncoming evening. Once they are clear, he lengthens his stride a bit to move a step and a half closer to her, dropping his voice a bit more.

“Are you the only one on that floor? Should I keep an eye out for others wandering the hall or is it an easy stroll from the stair to your quarters?” He rolls his shoulders a bit, anticipating the work for the evening and feeling his blood start to hum through his veins even now. Training is one thing, and he certainly enjoys it well enough, but it has been a while since he was out doing real work, fighting real fights. He is ready for it both physically and mentally–the exercise of spooling up and through plans has awakened a dusty corner of his mind and he finds that despite the direness of the situation and threat to both their lives, he is enjoying this.

“It is no real matter either way, just gauging what to expect.”

When she picks up her pace, so does he, and his own stomach rumbles as hers did earlier at the smell of food. Maretus doesn’t think he’ll have any issues staying later than usual here, and part of his mind already is thinking second helpings are in his future.

* * *

 

“No, just my room, the library and the closet. The perks of being in charge…and sleeping all the way up at the top. It’s a good thing the library is so small, else my room would be closer to the size of the closet. As for the entrance, it inconveniently can only be accessed by the first floor. But like I said, nobody should be down there at this hour. Anyone who has to stay overnight is on the second floor, and then dormitories on the third and attic.”

By the time she’s done her best explaining the lay of the land and how to get to the stairs from the main floor they’ve arrived and stepped inside the tavern. It’s blissfully warm from the fire and all the people in there. As if to second the relief and remind her why they were there her stomach growls again. The two make their way to the front, the bartender making some joke that he’d worried they’d off and died somehow. Apparently it was uncommon enough not to see the two of them turn up in the evenings that it had concerned him. Vanora smiles and assures him that everything is well, that they had only gotten absorbed in work a while, before the two head to their usual table.

Someone had obviously been there before and Vanora sweeps the crumbs off the table and her chair, but their spot it is empty when they arrive. Between prolonged bouts of silence to eat their food and actually enjoy it they chatted and finalized the details of the evening’s plans. Luckily they took long enough to cover every possible detail that they easily skirted the more delicate issues waiting to be attended to. They headed out as the tavern was quieting down, the patrons dwindling down to those keen on drinking long into the night. As always they parted ways, he to his room and she to hers. 

After having said goodnight to the healers still awake and headed for bed, of which there were very few, Vanora retired to her room. The space was about the same size that she remembered Maretus’ to be, though she had but one main space, a much smaller bathroom tucked off to the side. Her bed occupied the far corner of her room, her desk the wall opposite it, facing out so she could see out the tiny window set into the stone. 

She has the foresight to change into sleep clothes before Maretus arrives, wrapping herself in a robe to keep from freezing. Perhaps with another body in the room it would be slightly less frigid. The papers on her desk are a mess, so she shuffles them into a semblance of order, putting them off to the side setting one of her books on them to keep them from flying around. The journals from her travels and the ones filled with notes from her work are stacked up in size order and set atop the book, her desk looking suddenly quite clean. Moving her ink and quills off to the side as well, she decides that it’s much more presentable. Taking the dress she’d worn that day she folded it up and tucked it away in the chest of her clothes that sits at the foot of her bed.

At the last minute she slips out to the closet, investigating whether or not there  _were_  any spare blankets. Sure enough there were two. Though tempted to be selfish and take one of them she returns to her room and sets them on her desk so that Maretus might lay them out where he wishes to sleep. Then, satisfied that things were in order, she picks up the book on the table beside her bed and flips it open to the page where she’d left off.


	5. Chapter 5

**v.**

Once back in his rooms, Maretus takes stock of what he might need. He has vague notions of how to set something up that might trap an assassin, or at least catch them unawares, but he will have to see what the layout of Vanora’s room is first, and what the outside of the tower looks like. It’s crossed his mind that an assassin might be able to scale the ancient walls of Skyhold easily, and so he stacks a grappling hook and spare rope on his bed to start. A short recurve composite bow made of druffalo horn and wood goes next to them, with a quiver of arrows all with war bodkin heads, as well as a long and lean dagger.

Next he opens the chest at the foot of his bed and extracts a thick woolen blanket, which he lays out next to the various weapons and lays them on top of it, carefully rolling them all together into a tight cylinder for ease of carrying. All the weapons are effectively concealed, though the curved end of the grappling hood does stick out from one side of the blanket. Maretus can’t do much about that, but at this hour Skyhold would be mostly devoid of people and the cover of dark would help disguise it if anyone did spot him. Another, thinner woolen blanket gets rolled much more tightly and the two held together by a buckled strap that hooks onto his travel pack.

In the pack itself he puts two extra sets of clothing and four more pairs of knit socks–so long as his feet were warm, he would have no problems enduring the cold floor, especially if Vanora was able to procure a few fur rugs for him to use. He wasn’t young enough anymore that the floor didn’t bother him at all, but it would be more than bearable. Below the new items in the pack are the things he always keeps in it–a set of flint; a tied leather pouch with both cloth and leather sewing instruments, wax for bowstring, oil for conditioning leather, and oil for cleaning steel; two small skinning knives; and a downsized wooden bowl and cup, the last two of which were some of the only remnants of his life in Tevinter he’s kept all this time, the wood from a tree that only grows in the north.

Satisfied with his supplies, Maretus belts his regular sword and dagger around his hips, and then makes sure the pack is fastened securely before shouldering it and extinguishing the lamps in his room. The last thing he does is don a dark cloak that covers his pack and keeps his face in deep shadow while still allowing him a decent range of sight.

He waits in the dark until his eyes are accustomed completely to the dimmer light, and then to a specified count after. In case anyone was watching his rooms, as well, he goes to the window in his auxiliary room and clamors out quietly, glad his rooms, at least, are on the ground level of the courtyard.

It takes about twenty minutes to make his way across Skyhold to the healer’s tower, and that is because he is moving cautiously, familiarizing himself with the sounds of the night outside across the way from where he is accustomed, and taking extra pains to ensure he is not seen.

Once he reaches the tower, he crouches behind a bush next to the wall adjacent from it where he has a good vantage point to see at least half of the tower. He cranes his head back to see if he can spot windows high up, trying to identify the location of Vanora’s room from the outside. He sees some windows on what he thinks may be the floor her room is on, but isn’t certain. Lowering his gaze back to the main entrance, he watches for several minutes to see if there is any movement by the front of the tower. When he is satisfied that nobody is around, he makes his way to it, skirting torches’ circles of light as best he can until reaching the doorway and slipping inside.

It is dimly lit inside, thankfully, allowing him to hug the shadows on the wall as he makes his way to the eastern side. At one point, he hears the quiet shuffle of slippered feet in the relative silence of the room and ducks behind a table, drawing his cloak about himself and holding his breath until a healer comes into view. In the dim light, Maretus doesn’t recognize who it is, but they root around in a cabinet opposite where his hiding place is and draws out a few vials before yawning and going back to the main stair leading up.

For good measure, Maretus remains motionless and breathing very slowly several spans more, then sets off again. He is by the back stair door quickly, with no more interruptions.

The door to the stair is closed, and for several tightening breaths, he worries it will be locked, but the heavy handle gives way when he tries it. As soon as he starts to ease it open, however, it begins creaking and he grimaces, the sudden sound loud and seeming to him to echo up through the entire tower in the quiet dark. When there is no rushing clatter of alarm coming down the main stair, he lifts up on the handle, raising the door a little on its hinges and very slowly pushing it open again to see if that quiets it. Luck is on his side, as that does the trick, and he opens the door just wide enough to allow himself through, then carefully switches the same lifted grip on the other handle and shuts the door again.

Turning back to the stair, he finds it nearly completely pitch black, and reaches out cautiously with one hand until he feels the cool stone of the wall beneath it, then waits longer for his eyes to adjust as much as they were going to. It wouldn’t be pleasant going, but going slowly and carefully, he would be able to navigate the stairs.

Setting his jaw firmly, he edges forward, feeling out with each boot until he finds the first step. He checks the deepness and the height of the next one before stepping up, and in this manner with his hand running against the stone wall, he makes his way steadily, if somewhat slower than he would have liked, up the stair.

He counts forty-five steps and three wider landings before he sees a growing dim light above him in the stairwell, and reaches sixty when it reaches the floor where it stops. This was potentially the most difficult part of the night, where he had to cross the entire hallway without being seen to reach the main stair to head up to the next floor. Glancing back over his shoulder, he briefly entertains the idea of going out the window and using the grappling hook to climb the rest of the way up, but he isn’t sure Vanora’s windows are even on this side of the tower, and the window is not wide enough for him to fit through and turn around in safely, anyhow.

So the hallway it is.

Making sure the hood is drawn fully over his face, Maretus pads forward, carefully placing each foot over the other in almost a straight line and keeping close to the wall. The light that seemed to be bright to him he realizes is the same dimness as the base of the tower, and it only seemed to be more coming out of the near-dark stairwell. As he goes, keeping his breathing soundless and even, he hears no movement coming from the closed doors aside from soft snoring and one room that the pleasured sounds of two people enjoying themselves drifted out from. He reaches the main stair without any incident and hurries up the stairs as much as he can and still remain quiet.

The last flight is much longer than the previous ones had been in the back stairwell, though the height of each step was lower and he finds he can take two at a time with ease. Even so, by the time he finally reaches the top floor, his calves are beginning to ache and he is glad he’s close to his destination. Because of that, his guard slackens too much and he almost steps right in front of the open library door, to where there are quiet voices nearing. At the last viable moment, his attention snaps to them and he jerks back, ducking into a thankfully deep corner and freezing save to make sure he is entirely covered by his cloak.

Two healers emerge from the library, chatting quietly with each other. One of them carries a stack of books, and the other stops them just before Maretus’ meagre shadowed corner and says something about helping carry them. He stops his breath and presses back against the wall to keep himself from twitching or shifting, eyes fixated on them and willing them to not notice anything out of the ordinary. They redistribute the load of books and continue on past him and down the stairs, returning to their soft conversation. Only when their heads are beyond his view down the long flight does he let out his breath and let his shoulders slump a little, his heart ricocheting around in his chest. Not waiting for it to calm, he slides with his back to the wall still up to the library door and listens.

Upon hearing no further sounds inside, he dares to peak around the corner and finds it empty in his line of sight and dim, though that didn’t mean it was entirely empty. It would have been easier if they had closed the door after them, but he has to risk it, and gathering up a breath and a little muster, he darts across the wide opening of the doorway in two steps, stopping directly on the other side of it and listening if anyone was still in and happened to see him cross the threshold. When no one comes running to the hall to investigate, he relaxes a little and continues to the first door, knocking softly when he reaches it.

* * *

 

Quite unaware of the level of sneaking going on floors below her, Vanora sits on her bed, content to continue reading. The book she’d picked a few days ago was all on healing magic–something that had been forgotten in a corner of the library. Only one of the healers in the tower was actually a mage. The others with magical talents had all been sent off to camps and strongholds. They would be of greater help there than sitting in Skyhold with minimal work to keep the busy. At the very least it was a more exciting job, and they got to be away from the frigid complex. The only reason they had anyone with magical abilities left was because the girl had asked to stay. She was still young, and Haven had shaken her so thoroughly that she wasn’t keen on leaving the safety of Skyhold. Vanora couldn’t blame her.

There are likely more productive things she could be doing, perhaps journaling or finishing the entry she’d started to put together for one of the herbs she’d picked up from the man down the mountain. But for today she forsakes the need to do  _something_  and decided reading is enough. At least on her bed she can pull up the covers and try to stay warm. If she’d still been in her clothes it would have been a different story, but now, with naught but her sleep clothes on, she remains in bed.

Slowly she moves forward in her book, one page turning after the next. She isn’t sure when Maretus intends to come. Perhaps he would come right after his things, or wait a while until he’s sure things will be quiet. As if to punctuate the fact that not everyone in the tower was in their rooms already she hears a set of quiet voices from down the hall. No doubt the last of the stragglers who had been in the library. Whenever he turned up she couldn’t be asleep, so she returns her attention to the book. Barely a minute later a knock at her door startles her from her reading. Getting out of bed she ties her robe up and makes sure her socks aren’t falling off. Satisfied that she won’t freeze between her bed and the door she closes the space between the two objects in a few long, quiet steps.

Opening the door a crack she peers into the shadows before her, the light in the hallway warping them. The candles in her room provide enough light that she can tell it is Maretus, and she steps back, opening the door and letting him in. Once he’s firmly inside her room the door is closed silently behind him. He’s quite the sight with his pack on his back and his body hidden by the dark cloak. Practical, of course, but still amusing.

“Well, I hope you didn’t clean out your whole room. Or are you planning on moving in long term?”

The tone of her voice indicates that this is another joke, and she steps towards her desk to allow him more room.

“I found two blankets for the floor. It’ll have to do for now, I’ll see about furs tomorrow. You’re welcome to put your things wherever, and lay out your bed wherever there’s space. Though maybe not  _directly_  next to my bed–I might trip and fall right on top of you in the morning.”

* * *

 

He breaths a little easier the moment Vanora opens her door and he is in the room. Pushing the hood back from his head and then removing the cloak entirely, Maretus half folds and half rolls it in on itself–it could serve as a decent pillow if she had no extras.

“Hardly,” he replies, answering both parts of her quip. “I thought it’d be better to be prepared than not if it ends up being a bit of a stakeout. I’d rather not have to go through all that again just to get another pair of socks.”

Though, now that he’s there, he does wonder the best way to get down again during the day without being suspicious to go about his daily duties. Then again, he was known to be frequently around Vanora–as the innkeep’s comment to them illustrated earlier that night–and he could always maintain helping her out in some manner. He supposes that’s what she had in mind when she mentioned concocting a cover story.

Slipping the pack off his shoulders and setting it on the floor by his feet, he takes stock of her room. It’s no bigger than his, but immediately more fortifiable, not the least because it was somewhere around five stories up above the ground.

His eyes catch the blankets she’s mentioned resting on her desk next to a pile of neatly stacked books, and nods. “Thank you. I also brought two of my own, so I should be plenty warm.” Looking around a bit more, he makes note of where everything is in case he has to get up in the dark to deal with anyone, then makes his way over to her window.

Opening the glass pane and swinging it out, he wedges himself through and leans far out, looking down and around to get bearings on what part of the courtyard is below and trying to gauge how easily an assassin might be able to scale the wall. It’s a window more narrow and tall than not, but a person with a lither frame than his might not have trouble getting through it. Twisting around, he peers up above to the top of the tower, wondering if it would be easier for someone to get up there somehow and then drop down.

“Does this lock?” he asks, drawing his shoulders back in through the window and pulling the glass closed again, then fiddles with the pane as if to answer his own question. Shaking his head, he continues without giving her much time to answer. “It doesn’t much matter, I don’t think it’d be the best point of entry for an assassin–especially if they are among your healers.”

He turns his attention back to the rest of her room, focus sharp and calculating, weighing the layout in relation to the door and what the best course of action would be. There wasn’t a whole lot of space to maneuver, and he is glad he brought his dagger for close-quarters fighting rather than merely relying on his usual sword.

“The door opens inward,” he states, “which is a good thing, especially for us. It means any assassin who doesn’t want to open it onto something and alert you in here would have to come in through the window, but you’re up high enough that I don’t think if a healer  _is_  the assassin they would attempt that entry.”

Considering the floor, he nods to himself, then goes and opens the door quietly to see its range of motion and how far in in swings. “I’ll sleep here,” he says, shutting the door and motioning to a spot that overlaps where the door opens. “That way if anyone tries to sneak in they’ll bump my feet before they can really enter the room and I can be up and dealing with them.”

As he speaks, he unlatches the blankets from his pack and unrolls them, carefully removing the weapons and setting them between where he’s chosen to sleep and the wall, out of the way but still within easy grasp if any of them are needed. 

* * *

 

Vanora stays out of Maretus’ way, leaning against one of the four posts of her bed that is farthest from him. It is fascinating to watch him scour her room top to bottom, wedging himself through the window to see what was outside. He is clearly in his element. Sure, she’s seen him practicing with the soldiers in passing, gotten saved by him at twice, but there’s something different about him in this position. It’s the keen mind of someone who had risen through the ranks of the Legion based on merit, not by a fancy name and mediocre talent. It reminds her that not every part of Tevinter is corrupt. 

Before she answer that it does in fact lock, though not particularly securely, he’s brushed off the possibility of an assassin using it as a point of entry. Vanora knew that any assassin worth their salt could find a way into any place no matter how dangerous. But even so, the window is so narrow that even she would have trouble shimmying through. Much less getting in and out quickly and quietly.

It still makes Vanora uncomfortable thinking that one of her healers is the one spying on her, maybe even the one who’s been sent to kill her. If they’re a healer they would be more than capable of mixing up a poison and slipping it into her drink. They’d been so busy worrying about getting a secure position set up that it hadn’t occurred to her that the assassin might not have plans to dispatch them with physicality.

“Very lucky. The other doors on the floor open outwards.”

He starts to unpack and Vanora’s eyebrows lift.

“Well…you’ve come prepared.”

The armory was fully of sharp, dangerous things, but she hadn’t known that Maretus has his own private arsenal. Quite the impressive spread. She will have to be cautious if she gets up in the middle of the night. Tripping over the grappling hook would spell trouble, not to mention she’d likely end up with Maretus’ dagger to her throat. That wouldn’t be a good experience.

Waiting until he’s set all his weaponry aside Vanora pushes off the post of her bed. Walking over to the desk she picks up the two blankets and holds them out for Maretus.

”I was thinking about having one of my healers as my spy and potential. Killing us by physical means is well and good, but it would cause quite a stir to have two prominent members of the Inquisition with slit throats in one room.”

Shifting, vaguely uncomfortable that she has to acknowledge this at all, she rubs her eyes. It would be most practical to have a healer behind this all, which kicks her paranoia into overdrive. How would she manage to stay focused while she was worrying about one of her healers planning her murder?

“It would be much cleaner to just poison us. They’d know just what herbs to use and the proportions to make the most effective poison. At least the strongest they could make without any sort of venom. There are plenty that pack a deadly punch. Slip it into some of our food or drink. I guess that just means I won’t be eating or drinking anything beyond the tavern…unless they can get in there behind the scenes.”

Huffing she shakes her head, “It’s late and my paranoia’s going to get out of control if I keep talking. The best I’ll be able to do about it is keep a close eye on the herb stocks. If certain things start disappearing then we’ll have an idea whether or not poison is a more likely option.”

* * *

 

He’s re-rolling up his cloak to form a modest sort of pillow when she mentions poison, and he feels a sudden drop in his stomach. Of all the obvious things for him to have missed–he even said a number of times he thinks it is a healer, but it never occurred to him that poison is very likely  _exactly_  the route the would go.

All at once his shoulders fall and his head shifts a little to the side as he lets out a deflated breath and blinks slowly, feeling much the fool.

“I feel quite suddenly that all this is a little over the top,” he admits, chagrined. “I’ve only been used to providing physical protection detail while others handled more subtle means as poison that it… it didn’t fully cross my mind.”

He shakes his head, mostly at himself more than anything else. “I fear all this talk has gone about this the wrong way. I was so focused, so  _worried_  that they’d come at you with poisoned blade or sneak in here and wait for an ambush,” he says, the raw concern out his mouth before he can think about it. His throat tightens at the thought of such an invisible attack. “I don’t know much about how to protect from poison, or… magic.  _Can_  magic do that? Could an assassin mage stand outside this door and kill you in your sleep without even seeing or being near you? Without sound or warning and I would simply wake in the morning and find you?”

He’s letting his imagination get away from him, but the notion of someone coming to kill Vanora with magic and being completely unable to understand, let alone prevent or halt it, twists his stomach into little knots. The thought of waking in the morning to find Vanora dead constricts his chest and unsettles him enough to have to swallow past a lump forming in his throat. He looks down at his hands. How useless he is in such a situation. He hates this feeling.

“If they do use herbs, wouldn’t they have their own? What if it’s a poison they’ve brought with them?” His brow furrows in thought. There has to be something he–they–could do. “I fear the complicated art of poisonry is not in my purview of knowledge or skills, and I… I am not sure how to move forward.”

* * *

 

Although she is a little pleased with herself for contributing something to their survival plan, she knows that it is a factor that is much harder to handle than someone breaking into her room and trying to kill them. Poison is subtle, delicate, and much harder to avoid. He seems particularly upset and she worries that it’s because he hadn’t thought of it sooner. Now she’s said it the possibility of poison seems rather obvious. A bloody mess would draw more attention than them dying in their sleep.

His mind quickly starts spinning out of control, wandering off to other subtle ways that they could be assassinated. She hadn’t thought of magic as a way to assassinate someone, but it was plausible. Pursing her lips she tries to think of a way to assassinate someone practically using magic. Burning down the tower wasn’t exactly subtle, nor was bringing down a storm. Something tugs at her chest as he starts wondering about the possibility of waking up to her dead. It’s endearing, and she realizes that if their positions were switched she would be panicking too. To wake up and find him dead, without any ability to have intervened at all, would be a horrible experience. Frowning, she tries to shake the haunting feeling of having no control over it, of losing him so suddenly. It makes her head spin and her stomach twist, so she turns her attention to what she can do, not what she can’t control.

Maretus’ words slow, the tone less panicked, but it doesn’t mean he’s gone back to being calm and collected. Vanora sighs and reaches over to where he’s squatting, his bed forgotten momentarily. Setting her hand on his head she shushes him, smoothing his hair mindlessly.

“Be still, Maretus. Whether they have their own poison or not changes nothing. We’ll just need to be careful when it comes to food and drink–handle it ourselves if possible, or at least watch it being prepared. Which sounds nosy, but necessary. As for magic, I don’t know of a way that you could kill someone out of your line of sight…not subtly anyway. I suppose they could burn the place down or freeze us all, but that wouldn’t be too clever.”

Her hand slides down the back of his head before she pulls it back to her side, suddenly aware of what she’d done. It had become habit, consoling people with touch and words. It worked with the people she’d cared for, stroking their hair when they tried to fall asleep. Not something she would have done before coming here, but it worked well.

“How about we focus on making it through the night. We can worry about poison in the morning, hm?”

* * *

 

The moment he feels something touch his head he stiffens, but then instantly relaxes when he realizes it’s her hand. And then starts to lean his head back into the feel of her fingers against his hair, but catches himself before it goes on too long. It feels nice–too nice, and he simultaneously wants her to continue and is unsettled by how much he wants that. So he opts to do as she hushes to him and sits still, consciously slowing his breathing and hoping she doesn’t hear the loudness of his heart. He’s afraid she has when she suddenly draws her hand away.

Chewing gently on the inside of his lip, he ignores the minor drop his stomach does and tries valiantly not to dwell on the thought.

“It does change things–if they are taking from the tower stores, it might be easier to know a timeframe, but I fear we will not be that lucky.”

But, she has a point, he has to admit, and he lets out a breath. There is nothing to be done about it now, and he is already here so he might as well do as he originally intended and be a physical barrier for any potential attack. Ruefully eying the modest array of weapons he brought and feeling sheepish all over again, he glances up at her.

“Seems too much now, doesn’t it?” he asks, shifting to sit properly on the floor. It does to him, that much is certain. Something in the back of his mind suggests that it is better to be over-prepared than under, and something else suggests instead that he jumped too quickly to the task because of who is involved. He isn’t sure if one is more true than the other at this point.

All at once he feels exhausted, the emotional weight of the day pressing down on his shoulders, and he stretches one leg out, resting an arm on the other knee. “I’m not sure what would be better–if an assassin  _did_  try to sneak in tonight and that would put an end to it, or if nothing were to happen and I just get to enjoy your floor for a night.” The smile he gives her is a sheepish one.

* * *

 

Though it takes a moment Maretus finally acquiesces to let it be for the night. At this point there’s nothing more they can do. If someone is coming to kill them in person then they’re as prepared as they can be. Maretus has his weapons and, if need be, Vanora has her magic. Though between the two of them she imagines his fighting will be more than enough. Magic in such a small space with so many people isn’t something that bodes well their survival.

As Maretus finally sits properly, glancing up at her after scanning his weapons, Vanora smiles down at him. He looks almost embarrassed, as though he realized that he may have over prepared. As far as Vanora is concerned it was much better to be over prepared than underprepared in a life or death situation.

“It seems like just enough to me. But you’re the one who will be using them, so I defer to your judgement on that.”

Having to reassure Maretus surprises her, and simultaneously helps calm her. He was the soldier, the one who’d faced death before. Vanora was a politician, the only death she faced was sociopolitical…and literal if someone was stupid and angry enough to strike at her. Perhaps it is the element of poison that throws Maretus off kilter, or perhaps it is their lack of knowledge. But they’d both dealt with situations where there were more unknowns than facts.

Maybe it’s because she’s there, taking his attention away from the task at hand. It’s harder to focus when you have to worry about someone else at the same time. The feeling that train of thought elicits confuses her. A little flutter in her stomach, that he cared enough to be distracted over her well being, and a creeping sense of guilt that she could be the one to ruin it all by getting in the way. She pushes it all aside, smile turning into a smirk as she shrugs.

“Honestly? I think I would rather have it over and done with now; waiting only makes it worse. Though I have no issue having a roommate for the evening, either way.”

Pushing off the desk she steps towards her bed, shooting him a glance.

“Now go to sleep, Maretus. We’ve either got a long night, or a long day ahead of us. Or both…let’s hope it’s not the latter.”

Waiting for him to arrange himself in his makeshift bed Vanora blows out the candle near him, crossing her room and extinguishing the other two before going to her bed. Untying her robe she drapes it over the small hanger near her bed, darting under the covers as quickly as she can. Once she’s settled in she double checks that Maretus is as well.

“Goodnight, Maretus.”

And with that, the room went dark.

* * *

 

The sleep that he gets that night is fitful, at best. Once the room is dark, his mind immediately starts to wander, back over the conversations of the day, how everything unfolded between himself and Vanora.

And in the dark he can hear her breathing, hear the soft shifting as she moves beneath her blankets and furs, and it reminds him of just how many unanswered questions regarding her he holds at bay. Now, when everything has fallen quiet and still, it is difficult to  _not_  think of everything he’s been trying to avoid all day.

He’s gotten over the shock of her being an altus rather quickly–far quicker than he would have thought he would, and he can’t even quite find it in him to be angry anymore–no he hasn’t been angry for hours. Thinking about it now, it does make him a little nervous, as anything dealing with magic does, but even that is far less than he would have guessed. It’s because he trusts her implicitly, he realizes with a start, staring up at the ceiling, almost invisible in the dark.

Even though it was easy enough to see she is an altus through and through once her mind set to work on thwarting Septimus, she also  _doesn’t_  act like the altus he was used to back in Tevinter. None of the ones he’d known–even the most philanthropic, sympathizing altus he’d known during his time as Legator Legarem wouldn’t have ever left all their luxuries and conveniences behind to wear the simple clothes and do the difficult, tiring, frequently thankless job of a healer half a world away from everything and everyone they ever knew.

It was commendable, and–he swallows down a sudden lightness in his chest–he has to concede that he admires her for it.

He listens to her quiet breathing for a few moments.

It is a dangerous thing, he tells himself. A very dangerous thing that he shouldn’t even consider, shouldn’t let himself linger on.

Maretus closes his eyes and concentrates on the chill of the floor, the hardness of it against his back, pressing up into his shoulder blades–anything to relieve his mind of thoughts of the woman sleeping in the bed above where he lay.

Fortunately, the emotional exhaustion from the day has taken its toll on him and finally he sinks into sleep.

The next morning finds him stiff and cold, having sprawled on the floor out beyond the borders of his makeshift bed, both the blankets beneath and above him twisted and bunched down by his hips.

Dawn’s light is what woke him, and decades of rising with or before it. For an instant, he doesn’t remember where he is–it is colder than his quarters, looks very different, smells very different, and it sounds as if someone else–

Ah, yes. He recalls now, he slept on the floor in Vanora’s room for some sort of ridiculous contrived protection detail he convinced himself to do.

And then the rest of yesterday and all the previous days come back to him.

He rolls onto his back from his stomach, then sits up, scrubbing over his face with his hands and then smoothing his hair back. A foolhardy idea to begin with, it feels now, and he’s only reminded how ridiculous it is catching sight of his array of weaponry. The door never nudged his foot last night, and his presence here seems absurd in the light.

A soft, sullen laugh shakes his shoulders a little, shaking his head at himself. Casting a glance over to the bed, Maretus wonders if he should start gathering his things, if perhaps, like last night, the tower would be still mostly empty with people still in bed and only just rising to start their day. But, he doesn’t know the schedule of the healers, and he feels it might be discourteous to Vanora to try and sneak out before she wakes.

So he stretches his spine to make it pop a few times and rolls his shoulders to help a some of the kinks out of them, then lays back down after attempting to straighten the blankets beneath him fruitlessly. Fingers laced behind his head to pillow it somewhat better in addition to his cloak, he closes his eyes again and focuses on his breathing while he waits.

* * *

 

Remarkably, Vanora has little to no trouble falling asleep. With so much on her mind, so much going on and an ever growing mountain of issues to be dealt with, she was certain that she would be tossing and turning for an hour or two before finally falling asleep. Instead, once she’s wrapped herself up and gotten comfortable, it takes only a few minutes to fall asleep.

That doesn’t mean it’s a particularly restful or quiet sleep. The nightmare from the other night doesn’t come back. In fact, she can’t remember anything that she’d dreamt, but she spent the night tossing and turning, waking up only to shift and fall asleep again. Inevitably the anxiety about their situation surfaces, causing her to wake up more frequently. Finally, after what feels like endless hours of this, she manages to stay asleep. 

Normally Vanora wakes at dawn, the light working as a natural alarm clock. Sometimes when she’s better rested she wakes up earlier. Today she wakes up later, somehow exhausted enough that her brain overrides waking up with the light. While Maretus shifts around, working out some of the kinks in his back and shoulders and debating whether or not he should stick around, Vanora is still sleeping.

When the break of dawn has passed and the sunlight begins to light her entire room it is enough to finally wake Vanora up. She has a hard time getting up, her mind groggy and disoriented in her own room. Staring up at the ceiling she rubs at her eyes, trying to banish the sleep from them as she yawns. Shifting in bed she stretches out all her limbs, pushing them away from her body before relaxing again, joints cracking as she yawns again. Moving her blankets around she is tempted to curl up and go back to sleep.

Even though she had gone to sleep late it wasn’t later than she’d slept in past days. Something about having so much to process and plan has drained her. It is only then, when she wonders how they’re going to handle the assassin now that they haven’t made a move, that she realizes Maretus has stayed over. She goes rigid, breath hitching as she wonders if he was still here. Maybe this was all just business and he was off to unpack his things or get breakfast. Vanora stays tucked safely in her blankets a moment longer before finally peeking out.

She leans off the side of her bead, head and shoulders sticking out from her blankets as she checks to see if Maretus is still there. He’s woken before her and is laying on his back, hands behind his head and looking at the ceiling. Apparently he hadn’t been joking about sprawling out. His makeshift bed is a mess. Uncertain if he realized she was awake, she cleared her throat before talking.

“Good morning.”

Her voice is quiet as though speaking too loudly will shatter the quiet of the morning. Already she’s trying not to think about how this looks, how to get him out of the tower without it being painfully obvious he’s stayed over. Oh but she can already hear the girls giggling and shooting poignant glances at them. Looking over at his little stash of weapons she sighs.

“I guess our assassin was a no show…”

* * *

 

Though the sound of her voice is soft, it makes him start a little, shaking him out of the thoughts he was lost in. Sitting up with a fluid movement, he follows her gaze to his weapons and lets out a breath in conjunction with hers, shaking his head.

“No… there was no assassin, just as we thought after all was said and done already.” His voice his still rough from sleep, deepened from the late night and early rising, these being the first words he’s spoken so far. He clears his own throat a little to loosen it. “I think it very wise to keep an eye on the herb stores. Do an inventory or some such thing.” He suddenly realizes what he’s saying and looks up at her, catching her eye. “Ah–sorry. Don’t let me tell you what to do; it’s a habit,” he says by way of apology.

Drawing his knees up a bit, he leans forward and rests his arms on them, looking at his fingers between his legs. “It wasn’t unbearably cold last night, at least,” he says, attempting for lightness. “Though I wouldn’t blame you if you still procured those fur rugs to not deal with the hardness of the floor–my back would certainly agree with that assessment.” He fears the smile he gives her will look forced, though it isn’t, not really.

The dissatisfaction he feels toward himself for going through all the trouble to skulk up to her room for nothing rankles him–he should have considered poison as the more likely culprit. A sigh leaves him and he lets it all go. He should have known better, yes, but it does no use to dwell or kick himself over it. Time to change the plan and move on, so that is what he does.

“I think, perhaps, since I find it unlikely the tower is as devoid now as it was last night when I came in, the easiest way for me to get down without raising too much suspicion is as if I stopped by early to get supplies for a trek. It’ll look like I’m headed out somewhere, with all the trappings strapped to my pack.” He shrugs a little. “I don’t think we can do anything about any sort of… rumors some people may conjure, but I’m more concerned about not tipping off the assassin that we are alert for them.”

He lifts his head and gaze back to her. “Does that sound plausible?”

* * *

 

Despite her throat clearing and quiet tone her voice is still enough to startle him. Between the grogginess of morning and the thoughts that no doubt had already started taking over it wasn’t particularly surprising. His voice is deep and rough from sleep, something tightening in her belly, and Vanora tries not to dwell long on the fact that she finds the tone quite attractive. Leaning back into her bed Vanora shifts so that she can sit up, leaning to the side slightly so the post of her bed doesn’t obscure Maretus’ face. He sounds disappointed, and Vanora can’t help but feel bad for him. All this planning only to realize there was a possibility that there would be no physical encounter. When he mentions furs for the floor she swears her heart skips a beat. Is he still planning on staying, even though they seem quite certain that the danger won’t be so obvious as an assassin sneaking in with knives? Of course not, he’s talking about furs in general, to help keep the room more comfortable.

“Of course it would be more comfortable. Half an hour was hardly enough time to find them, but I shall endeavor to get ahold of a few.”

She reaches her arms up towards the canopy of her bed, fingers lacing as the blankets pool on her lap. Her shoulders and the space between them crack, the feeling and sound rather satisfying. Rolling them to make sure there weren’t any kinks in the muscles, she dares to abandon her blankets. If they’re going to deal with getting Maretus out of the tower she couldn’t lounge in bed; even if she would have preferred a lazy day to recuperate from all the activity. The floor is freezing and she nearly jumps across it to get her robe. A shiver runs through her as she grabs it, wrapping the heavy, but ultimately also cold, fabric around her body. Tying it up she shakes herself off as though it might banish the cold.

“Awful weather. I’ve been here how long? And I still can’t get used to it. I’m sure if I’d taken the floor you’d find me frozen solid.”

Wrapping her arms around herself to help warm herself up again, Vanora nods at his idea to escape the tower without too much suspicion.

“Plausible enough, yes. You could have slipped in early to check on supplies, maybe even look at a map if anyone’s up here already. I suppose that means getting dressed would be a wise idea. No need to give them any more reason to whisper.”

Rubbing her arms she moves towards the chest at the end of her bed, drawing out something clean to wear.

“I’ll dress quickly, it takes but a moment.”

Were she at home it would have taken well over a minute or two. It was a whole process depending on the day and the events planned.

“You can dress in here if you’d like, or take the washroom when I’m done.”

Before her mind wanders to anything lewd or uncouth she’s turned around, scurrying off to the small room so she can change and focus on what lay before them. Lots and lots of work and vigilance.

* * *

 

She almost sounds as if she’s chiding him when she tells him she hadn’t had enough time to procure the rugs, and he’s about to open his mouth and explain they weren’t a necessity, that he’d slept well enough, when she stretches her arms above her head. Unbidden, his eyes sweep up the line of her frame, along the slight curve she puts in her spine to ease quiet pops from it, and what words were in his mind to say flee in that instant. There is a quick tightening, a warm pooling in the base of his stomach, and he is unable to will composure back into his mind until she darts out from beneath her blankets and into her robe. The sudden motion breaks the moment he was caught in and he finds his voice again.

“I’ll keep that in mind if the choice ever needs to be made who sleeps on the floor again,” he replies, amused. It is chilly, he is cold, but despite acutely feeling it, it doesn’t bother quite so much as it seems to bother her. “I’m surprised you didn’t request a room with a mantle and fireplace.”

Watching her pull out clothes from the chest to wear for the day, he nods. “Don’t rush overmuch on my account,” he tells her. “Now that we’re mostly certain the assassination attempt won’t be a physical one, time isn’t of quite as much the essence as it was before.”

Once she’s in the room, however, he sees no reason to wait for her to be finished. She is in there, he is in here, and all he really needs to do it change his shirt–the one he slept in is entirely too rumpled to look as if he just put it on this morning. Glad that  _something_  he had prepared for and packed came in handy, he pulls out a tightly rolled tunic from his pack and gets to his feet, taking a moment to set the tunic on her desk and stretch a bit now that he was vertical.

Feeling a bit more limber than he had before, Maretus strips off his shirt and shivers a bit. The air is colder than he previously thought, beneath the warm woolen tunic and the two blankets he’d brought. 

As he unrolls the fresh tunic and gives it a few sharp shakes, he says loud enough to carry into where she’s changing, “I’ll take the washroom when you’re done, freshen up a bit so it doesn’t seem like I spent the night on a stone floor.”

Walking back in as if on cue, Vanora emerges dressed and ready for the day before he’s even had a chance to put his fresh tunic on. He gives a small laugh. “That certainly was quick,” Maretus comments, enjoying the way she looks freshly dressed and wondering why it feels different than seeing her several hours into the day. She still would be wearing the same clothes, after all, but somehow it’s not the same. “I feel like I’m dawdling now.”

With a few quick tugs, the tunic goes over his head as he walks toward the room Vanora just came out of, giving her a small half-smile as he passes by her. “I’ll see if I can’t be as quick as you.”

He is able to finish quickly–taking only a moment to splash water on his face and looking up into the mirror she has hanging on the wall to judge his appearance as suitable after raking wet hands through his hair to make it more presentable. Once satisfied, he goes back out and over to his array of weapons and the blankets, setting them out as he did the day previous to pack them back up again.

“Once I get these all packed away–which shouldn’t take more than a few minutes–I’ll be ready to go. How do you think is best to go about this?” he asks her while he packs, eyes on what he’s doing.

* * *

 

The years spent on the road have made Vanora proficient in moving quickly to get daily tasks done. No longer could she spend nearly an hour getting ready in the morning, someone combing and braiding her hair while another made up her face and another yet helped her dress. Standing in the small stone washroom it seems a ridiculous scene, a memory that seems so far away that it may as well be someone else’s life. Still, she misses it, misses being able to relax and take her time, not having to rush through so much of her life. Dressing was a calming ritual that she had enjoyed at home, time to prepare for the day both mentally and physically. Now she does what took an hour in the span of a few minutes.

Her nightclothes are stripped off, replaced with the woolen dress she has picked for the day. The speed is more a result of the cold than anything else—she wants her skin exposed as little as possible. Maretus has been right to wonder at her lack of mantle and fireplace. It wasn’t her first choice to be in such a frigid room, but it had only been logical. With the other healers below her she felt somehow the place atop the tower held a place of importance; it allowed her to hear the going ons below her, even if it meant sacrificing a fireplace. Why anyone had deigned to forsake the fireplace was cruel indeed. Perhaps the room had once been used for another purpose. If it was meant to be a bedroom surely they would have built one.

Dress on her body she reaches for the belt that lays just under the pile of her discarded nightgown. The dress isn’t particularly form fitting, made for practicality and ease of movement over style, so the belt manages to cinch it in and make it look less like a sack. Realizing she hadn’t bothered to bring her shoes in with her, she opens up the door, assuming that Maretus was waiting on the floor still, only to freeze in her tracks. Her hastily folded nightgown in her hands nearly drops to the floor as she realizes that Maretus was indeed  _not_ waiting for her to be done. For a moment she can’t manage to breathe, eyes drawn immediately to the skin bared before her.

Beneath the expanse of golden skin she can see the muscles of his torso, honed from years of training and fighting. All she can do is stare at him, eyes sweeping from his chest down to where his pants begin. In another moment her gaze shifts, transfixed on the ragged scars that decorate the space between his ribs. She wonders at what story might lay behind them, how they’d gotten there in the first place. From the corner of her eye she can see more scars on his upper arms, but then quickly realizes she’s been staring more than a moment too long. Sucking in a quick breath of air, as though she’d been under water, her eyes snap up to his face.

It was a mistake to look up, her eyes locking with his for an uncomfortably long moment before he pulls the tunic over his head, covering up the cause of her distraction. Her eyes widen just a hair when he smiles at her in passing… he hadn’t  _noticed_ , had he? Maker preserve her. She blames her distraction on the early hour, on how late they had stayed up, but the heat in her belly is a sharp reminder that is certainly  _not_  the case. The explanation of why is quickly banished from her mind, tucked away in a dark corner, and promptly replaced by a sudden interest in folding her clothes.

She turns away from Maretus after he’s passed her, back facing the door as it closes. Her nightclothes are folded quickly and replaced into the chest. Glancing over her shoulder at the door she shakes her head, chiding herself for how easily distracted she suddenly is. It wasn’t as though she’d never seen a half naked man before. Hell, she’d seen him completely naked. That thought stills her hands as she reaches for her blanket. She  _had_  seen him naked… though her mind had been miles away at that point. She’d been too busy trying to keep him alive to bother… appreciating anything. Vanora nearly slaps herself, pushing everything out of her mind that didn’t pertain to making the bed and how much stock she would have to go through during the day.

When Maretus emerges again she’s sitting at her desk, aimlessly shifting through the papers in her hand. Glancing up, eyes following him as he begins packing his bag up, she sets the papers back onto her desk, picking at invisible lint on her dress instead, still unsure that she can meet his eyes without feeling strange.

“I can go out first, make sure the coast is clear, and then you can follow me out. We head to the library, pick out a map of the area, then head downstairs when you’re ready to leave and well prepared for your ‘journey.’ Trying to convince you to bring the map along might add an extra level of realism to it…I don’t think anyone would call me out for being overly cautious or trying to boss someone around if I thought it would help keep them safe.”

* * *

 

The thought of her fussing over someone being particularly incautious brings a smile to his lips, but it’s once he suddenly feels self-conscious of without quite understanding why, and so he hides it by keeping his head lowered, focused on what his hands were doing. There’s no reason, he tells himself, to feel as such–Vanora was quite likely to do such a thing, and in fact he’s pretty sure he’s personally witnessed it more than once in the past.

“Yes,” he agrees, “That is definitely a plausible situation.” He finishes rolling up the blanket with his weapons in it, then ties it together with the other on the top of his pack again. “Though ironic, considering how  _over_ -prepared I came.”

Pushing off his knee to stand, he’s about to reach for his sword belt when his eyes fall over his makeshift bed again. Though he’s sure she’s not expecting him to clean up, he feels it would be rude not to, so he crouches again and folds up the blankets he’s slept on into a neat stack. He stands and puts them on the top of the chest at the foot of her bed. “Far be it for me to intrude on your floor for no good reason for a night and leave it a mess.”

Once they were both as ready as they could be, Vanora slips out of her room to make sure the coast is clear. Maretus is left alone for several minutes in her room, waiting, with only his thoughts keeping him company. He’s sure he saw her startle when she came out of the room, and her eyes had swept over him. Surprised to see him undressed? Couldn’t be–she’d seen more of him than just that. It was probably just that she hadn’t expected him to be in the middle of changing when she came out.

Or perhaps it was curiosity–from a healer’s standpoint. He has several scars that he’s sure would raise eyebrows, especially considering that magic could very easily erase any trace of a wound. And, now that he knows she’s a mage herself, she might wonder why he had them at all, especially being in the Legion as he once was.

That’s all it probably was.

There is a small and aching want for it to be something  _more_ , but he pushes that down and away and makes his way over to a small filled bookcase against one wall. He didn’t notice it last night in the dim light of the room when he arrived, and it catches his attention now.

Curious–and more than a little glad for the distraction–he tilts his head to the side to read the titles on the ones that have them, intrigued by her selection. Some are obviously journals, but there are many titles he recognizes, and quite a few he doesn’t. He picks one up at random and pages through it, intending to skim over its contents and finding his thoughts completely unwilling to focus on any of the words on the page before him.

The scent of lavender drifts up from the book, and Maretus acutely remembers smelling it in association with Vanora before–namely crammed together in the slender cleft on their way down the mountain to get specific herbs for her needs. They’d both nearly died and he doesn’t know how the horse didn’t buck them out of fear or catching a hoof on some hole or stone and pitching them off onto the ground. Once the adrenaline had worn off, however, he remembered the brief moments of enjoyment in being pressed against her, his head cushioned on her stomach and her hand on his head. She’d smelled strongly of lavender and the medical herbs she worked with, and he could have comfortably stayed there longer than necessity dictated.

Bringing his free hand up to massage his forehead, trying to decide if he really wanted to banish the memory and thoughts that accompanied it, he hears the soft click of her door opening, and quickly looks up from the open book in his hand, thankful once again for the timely distraction from cumbersome complications.

He waits until Vanora steps fully back in the room and shuts the door before addressing her in a voice pitched low, in case there were in fact other healers about in the tower library or hall. “Are we clear to go?”

* * *

 

Vanora hardly remembers that he’s got a bed made up on the floor, disheveled as it may be. He had been rolling up blankets, and apparently that had translated in her head as picking up the bed. She opens her mouth, assuring him that he doesn’t need to worry, but before she can get the first sentence out he’s already folding the blankets. Shaking her head, she decides to check and see if the coast is clear.

“If you’re going to be such a good guest then you can have a standing invitation,” she teases, slipping out of the room before he has a chance to respond.

The hallway is empty, which is a good sign right off the bat. Vanora stays just outside her door, waiting to hear something that would indicate that she isn’t alone outside her room. The only thing she manages to hear is some of the girls chatting a few floors down, voices barely audible through the floors. She walks carefully, slowly, and is grateful for the ridiculous lessons on how to walk she’d been put through as a child. Apparently it does have a practical use beyond looking good.

As quietly as possible she opens the door to the library, waiting again and listening for any sort of voices or noise. Of course a book page turning wasn’t something she could hear, but there doesn’t seem to be anyone inside. Leaving the door open just an inch she walks down the aisle of books, turning off to the right where the maps are stored, listening all the while for a sign that she isn’t alone. No such sign comes. Reaching up to the top of the bookcase she pulls down a handful of maps, shuffling through them until she finds one of the surrounding area. Stashing the others back in their place she sneaks out of the library and back into her room as quietly as she’d left.

Closing the door behind her, careful to muffle the noise of it latching, she turns her attention back to Maretus, holding up the map in answer.

“We are clear to go. But we better move quickly before our luck runs out.”

The two slip out of her room, heading down the stairs. They make it to the second floor before they run into someone. Leah, the mage healer who’d stayed behind, nearly walks right into them as they turn the corner. Surprised, she eyes the two of them, clearly suspicious, when Vanora holds up the map.

“Maretus stopped in early for supplies. He’s off to get me some more of the herbs from the old man.”

The suspicion abates, but Leah doesn’t look completely convinced. She doesn’t need to be completely convinced, just believe enough to not question them too much.

“And what’s the map for, then?”

“He doesn’t quite know the way to town once he gets off the mountain. Anyway, it doesn’t hurt to have it and be prepared, hm?”

At this she turns narrowing her eyes at him as though she were a chiding mother, trying to bully her child into doing what she wanted by getting a friend of his on her side. It seems to convince Leah enough that she lets it go, a smile forming on her face as she nods.

“Vanora’s right, it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’d listen to her, she doesn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. You of all people should know that.”

You of all people? Vanora doesn’t do anything but look back at Maretus, an ‘I told you so’ look on her face.

“See, Leah agrees. Now you take the map and get on your way. Come on, I’m not letting you leave until I know you’re keeping it.”

With Leah out of earshot Vanora exhales, handing Maretus the map.

”Humor me. And pray to the Maker that girl doesn’t turn up again. She’s so nosy, the queen of the gossip circle I think.”

They make it down to the first floor, everyone busy enough with their things that they don’t pay Vanora and Maretus much mind. Still, she makes a small show of shooing him off, warning him that she’ll know if he’s left the map behind and telling him not to be stupid.

* * *

 

For his part in the charade, Maretus manages to look disagreeable enough that Vanora fussing over him needing a map would be more than reasonable.

“I  _was_  there once before, you know. I can  _probably_  find my way up and down a mountain.”

Of course he remembers the way–not only was the first thing he did upon arriving to Skyhold to familiarize himself with the immediately surrounding area, but he had accompanied her before down the mountain to the village she mentions. And any trip that nearly caused at least one of them to be in mortal danger not once, but twice, was not something that would readily slip his memory.

But. That was not the point of all this, and his actual competency in geography was not truly in question.

Leah agreeing with Vanora after the  _look_  she sent him, saying he was better off listening to Vanora than not, was the indicator they needed that they averted disaster or suspicion. Especially with not knowing who the potential assassin may be,  _they_  were both better safe than sorry to take whatever pains they could to ensure no suspicions at all are raised by anyone.

Luckily enough, he supposes, that they were commonly known to already spend time with one another–again as Leah’s offhanded comment suggested, making something flip a little in his stomach–that him seeking Vanora’s aid would not be considered out of the ordinary.

Maretus takes the map from her, also making a show to frown at it, then finally look up at her and nod.

Quietly, so only she could hear, he says, “Of course. I’ll leave quickly and keep myself scarce for a few days. With any luck the plant here working against you will be witness to this and assume I’m gone. They may try to start getting ready to strike, so be on the lookout in the meantime.” A bit louder, more conversationally, he adds, “I’ll be in touch with you in a few days with what I can get.”

Part of him wishes he would have snuck a book out of Vanora’s room for something new to read while he bides his time… the fact that it also would have carried her scent into his room is something that he doesn’t want to admit crossed his mind as another thing he also wanted.

After he leaves the healing tower behind, he stops in at the inn to get enough food to last him several days, for the dual purpose of making it more convincing that he would actually leaving, and also to hold him over if he was indeed going to hide for a while. Of all places he’d never thought to have to do something like this was Skyhold, but the arm of Tevinter is long, he supposes.

Because he is a cautious man, Maretus even goes the extra step of  _actually_  leaving Skyhold they way he would were he taking the trip in truth. Assassins and plants who knew who he was and who she was who followed either one or both of them all the way here meant he couldn’t be too careful. He isn’t willing to risk either of their lives on the assumption he isn’t being watched while still in Skyhold. So, he waits until nightfall and comes back in under cover and prepares to stake out the next two and a half days in his room.


	6. Chapter 6

**vi.**

Their charade seems to have worked perfectly. There are a few giggles and quieted gossip going around, but it’s nothing dangerous–Vanora hears all. The rest of her day is spent in the stockroom, as is the day after. Apparently the room is in greater need of cleaning and organizing than she’d originally thought. After so many hours dedicated to counting bushels of herbs, reorganizing them by name, and taking note of which ingredients they were in need of she barely remembers that the reason behind all this is to ensure she doesn’t get poisoned along the way. She can’t be sure which sort of herbs the assassin would favor, but she hasn’t noticed anything particularly deadly in low stock. After all, they were  _healers_ , not part of Leliana’s people. If someone wanted poison they’d go to the spymaster, not the tower.

By the end of the second day Vanora has filled a good portion of a large journal with notes. Tables amongst the pages keep track of what they have, how much of it they have, and when they’ll need to replenish their stock. It is an exhaustive list, covering everything from elfroot to crystal grace, and she is happy to finally be able to take a break. Satisfied that everything is in place she leaves the stockroom, bringing the heavy journal with her to make some final adjustments after dinner. Although Maretus had ‘returned’ from his trip they’d stayed away from one another, waiting to see if the assassin struck while they were apart and presumably more vulnerable. It’s strange not being able to talk to him, to have dinner in her room alone or with some of the healers between work. She is acutely aware of how much she  _misses_  him. They had distanced themselves when Maretus was finding out about her, when they were dancing around the issues brewing, but now it was a forced separation for practical purposes. After having him back, all to herself, the two working together to survive again, his absence is startling and uncomfortable.

Vanora does her best not to dwell on the ache in her chest, focusing her attention on her work. But when she finds herself sitting in her room a day later, transferring her stock notes into a more formal ledger, even the busyness of her hands cannot keep her mind focused. By now she’s barely focusing on the words before her, mindlessly copying things from one book to the next. It’s nearly noon, likely time for her to go get something to eat, but all she can bring herself to do is sigh and rub her eyes as she leans back in her chair. She’s beginning to wonder if they’ve acted preemptively, if Septimus’ threats were empty ones made to scare Maretus into doing his bidding. That clearly hadn’t worked, and Vanora wonders if all Septimus could do now was regroup and  _actually_  send assassins. It’s a silly notion, but she grows impatient with each passing day. If he’s going to make his move he better make it quickly before she decided it was time to send her own special greeting to him. One that would effectively silence him and remove him from all future interactions.

A knock on the door draws Vanora’s attention back to the present.

“Come in,” she calls, the door opening to reveal Leah, a tray in hand. The young woman steps into the room, the door open behind her as she readjusts her hold on the tray. A teapot, teacup, and a plate of bread and cheese is laid upon it, the young woman smiling shyly.

“I didn’t see you come down for lunch, so I thought I might bring you something to eat. You’ve been so busy with work, and you have an awful habit of forgetting to eat.”

The tray is set down on her desk, Leah glancing at the book open beside Vanora. Her gaze lingers a bit too long, skimming the page as though she was looking for something. Odd. Hadn’t she been in and out, helping during her spare time? Nothing in the book should be surprising or particularly interesting.

“Are you done with that? I could bring it down to the stockroom if you’d like.”

Vanora waves her off, a calm smile on her lips, “Nonsense. I still have a few more things to copy over. Thank you for the tea, you read my mind–I was about to go get something to eat.”

The girl assures her it’s nothing, that it is the least she could do after Vanora had done so much for everyone. Reminding Vanora to drink the tea while it was still hot, sounding a bit like a chiding mother, Leah exits the room, closing the door behind her and leaving Vanora alone to stew in her own thoughts.

* * *

 

Maretus has never done well with vacations, whether intended or forced or practical, and staying cooped up inside his room is far worse. He takes the time to reorganize everything, including all the spare weapons and armor in his auxiliary room. When that is finished–and it doesn’t take terribly long–he works on a few reports for Commander Cullen that weren’t immediately needed, but would eventually need to be done. He might as well, while he has the time. Around those things–which don’t really take up as much time as he hoped–he focuses on an exercise and stretching regimen to try and pass the rest of the time. It works, mostly, though he still is left with large swaths of time with nothing to do. He really does regret not borrowing one of Vanora’s books.

Finally, though, he deems that enough time has passed for him to “return”, and so is freed from his self-imposed imprisonment. After returning the map and having a brief discussion with Vanora, they decide to continue keeping distance between them to see if that would draw out any assassination attempts.

He falls back into his routine of training soldiers, excusing his sudden absence the last few days to Commander Cullen by presenting the reports he’d completed during that time. A stern reprimand is all he receives, but no real discipline. The Inquisition is no military force in truth, and so there is no set punishment for skipping a few days. He could just as easily tell them he was feeling under the weather, but his conscience doesn’t allow for that.

Everything returns to a normalcy again, as if nothing ever happened between him and Vanora–save that he started taking his meals either in his room or still out on the field. It is an odd feeling, knowing that there more than likely is an assassin biding their time, watching Vanora and very possibly him. Maretus wishes that there had been an attack the night he snuck over to Vanora’s room–but as soon as he thinks that, he recalls how ridiculous moving so immediately had been. Why would an assassin be so convenient as to choose to strike the night he gets a wild hair up his ass to sneak over and lay in wait for them?

Not one of his more enlightened ideas.

Pushing that embarrassing memory away for possibly the twentieth time, Maretus turns his focus back to sewing up the tear in the side of one of the practice dummy’s heads. He had the soldiers practice a few attacks on them today in succession, and some of them had been quite enthusiastic about it, nearly severing the head off one dummy and tearing open the straw guts of this one. Instead of having one of the recruits fix it, he took it upon himself to do so–after all, it was his drilling that tore them open.

So he almost misses hearing someone come up behind him, twisting at the sound of gravel crunching beneath a boot. It’s one of the soldiers he’s been training for the last several weeks, in the current rotation. He’s still in his practice armor, as if he’d been on his way off the field but then turned and come back before reaching his room in the barracks to change.

“Filip,” he says. “Questions about the maneuvers? Or have you come to help sew up the damage from them?”

* * *

 

Vanora ignores the tea for a minute, finishing up one of the columns of herbs before she turns her attention away. She realizes that she is indeed hungry, no doubt having forgotten breakfast again. Reaching for the teapot she pours herself a cup, content to finish her work before digging into the food Leah has brought up. The cup is set at the edge of her desk, Vanora glancing over the ledger and furrowing her brow. There are herbs in surprisingly low stock, dangerous ones that were rarely used and stored away for the use of the alchemists. Vanora can’t recall anyone asking for the herbs, but there is no indication that they had fallen in stock from their earlier counts. It isn’t until Vanora flips back to the original tallies that she realizes something is wrong. The original count is scratched out, blotted out by black, a number that matches the current count written to the side of the box. She can’t imagine who had been so careless as to miscount nightshade. They’d started with them, the herbs easiest to count, so they were all sharp and awake. 

Picking up her tea Vanora puzzles over the strange error. Turning the page she realizes nightshade isn’t the only herb ‘miscounted.’ Aconite and hemlock have their numbers scratched out too, and Vanora knows without searching the rest of the ledger that the assassin has been at work. With everything out and easily accessible during the past few days it would be easy enough to slip in, take what they needed, and adjust the ledger so as to avoid suspicion. Vanora sighs, picking up the teacup and taking a sip. The liquid is hot, hot enough to nearly burn her tongue, and she’s so distracted that she spits it back into the cup out of reflex. Trying to cool her tongue she realizes that the tea tastes strange…  _very_  strange. Lifting the teacup to her nose she breathes in the aroma, but nothing jumps out as an off smell. It simply smells like herbal tea. Carefully she takes another sip, just one, the liquid having cooled down a bit. Nothing happens right away, and after a minute she is ready to shrug it off and attribute it to paranoia. Still, she doesn’t drink any more of the tea and as she returns to her work. Ten minutes later she begins to realize that her lips are tingling and her tongue feels vaguely numb. Flipping back in her ledger her eyes scan the herbs, stopping on ‘aconite.’ She pauses to recall what little she knew of the poisonous herbs they kept in stock, remembering quickly that aconite, or wolfsbane, caused numbness, burning and tingling…before it started making one violently ill and killing them.

The book in her lap is set down immediately, forgotten off to the side as she goes to the wash basin, thoroughly rinsing her mouth out. A sip wouldn’t kill her, but it could still make her quite ill. When she’s satisfied her mouth is washed out well enough she returns to her desk, staring intently at the pot of tea. It’s not rocket science to piece it all together. Leah had always been around the tower, her quiet and meek nature allowing her to pass by relatively unnoticed. She’d helped Vanora in the stockrooms the entire time, coming and going throughout the day to assist in her free time. It was the perfect opportunity to take the herbs without any suspicion. And she’d brought Vanora the tea. Leah was sweet, but she had always seemed  _too_  sweet to Vanora, as though she was going out of her way to be nice. Before today Vanora had always assumed it was an attempt to be accepted by everyone else, to endear herself, but now Vanora suspects being accepted and hiding her true nature were one in the same. Working simply on instinct she goes out into the hall and calls one of the healers from the library over, asking to send Leah up. By the time the healer arrives Vanora’s mind is made–the girl isn’t leaving that room. Just as Septimus would have Maretus killed to clean up his loose ends, Vanora will have her own loose ends to tie up.

Everything with Septimus, this entire mess he’s created, makes Vanora fume. She’s tired of it, and she wants it settled as soon as possible. So when Leah enters the room, closing the door behind her, Vanora’s patience is already wearing thin. She gestures towards the empty chair, turning and watching as Leah slowly moves towards it, caught off guard and uncertain how to remedy this situation. The full cup of tea still sits on the desk and Vanora forces a sickly sweet smile onto her face.

“It was so kind of you to bring the tea up for me, I felt guilty drinking it all by myself. Have a cup, would you? It might have cooled off a bit–the first cup was so hot I had to choke it all down before it burned my mouth.”

Leah doesn’t move but manages to smile politely and shake her head.

“I brought the tea for you, ma’am. There’s plenty of tea downstairs.”

“Yes, of course, but this is freshly made and it’s so delicious. What blend did you use? Certainly nothing I’ve tasted before. You simply  _must_  have a cup–indulge me.”

When Leah doesn’t move, glancing nervously between the cup and Vanora, her guilt is solidified. Nobody would be nervous about drinking their own tea unless they knew something was wrong with it. The girl opens her mouth, about to insist that she couldn’t possibly take the tea, but Vanora interrupts her. The bright, cheerful smile is gone and her face darkens, lips drawn together in a serious line.

“I said  _have a cup of tea_. Really. I insist.”

Her tone leaves no room for argument, firm and subtly threatening, her eyes narrowing as Leah’s face blanches. She might not be as innocent as she pretends to be, but her meekness is clearly not as fake as Vanora had expected. When she reaches for the cup, hands shaking, she nearly knocks it over. A flick of Vanora’s fingers prevent the cup from falling, Leah gaping at her with wide eyes. From across the room Vanora’s fingers twitch again, hand moving as the teapot lifts and pours another steaming cup.

“Leah…have a cup.  _Now_.”

There isn’t another option now that Vanora’s pulled out the magic. Leah isn’t stupid enough to try and fight her, and this isn’t a situation she can talk her way out of. She’s been caught. Slowly she reaches for the cup, hands still trembling as she takes a sip. Vanora’s eyes narrow, staring her down as she takes another and then another.

“Good. Have another cup.”

Another gesture and the pot refills Leah’s cup before she can put it down. Her eyes are watering and she finally speaks up.

“Please, Vanora, I was only doing what I was told.”

“Mmm, and I suppose you were getting nothing out of this little deal, hm? I’m not a fool, girl, and I’ve been playing this game longer than you’ve been breathing. Finish the tea.  _All of it_.”

By now she’s starting to cry, finishing up the second cup and pouring a third under the dark, watchful stare of Vanora. The sips are slower now, purposefully drawing it out, hoping that Vanora will let her go. She’s barely drinking when Vanora pushes off the wall, but the moment a crackling spark from Vanora’s fingertip hits her temple she’s drinking again. It’s cruel to make her do this, to sit and watch as the girl drinks her own poison, but Vanora won’t take any chances. She will see this through, she will play Septimus’ little game, and when this business of assassination is done she’ll have Septimus’ head on a platter.

Finally the teapot is emptied and Leah has given up all pretenses, openly weeping while Vanora stands across from her, her stony gaze fixed upon the younger woman. Gesturing for her to stand up Vanora opens the door to her room. Leah takes a few tentative steps forward, hand going to her stomach as though she was ill–she would be in a few minutes.

”It’s a pity things had to end this way, Leah, but you can’t possibly think that Septimus would have let you live after this.”

“H-how did you….?”

“I told you, I’ve been doing this since before you drew breath. Now, you’re going to go to your room, make your peace, and let the tea do its work. Am I understood?”

Leah nods, taking another heavy breath between shaky sobs. She doesn’t want to die, and Vanora can’t blame her. But there’s no other way to handle this. Now that Vanora has her answer, has the plant and the assassin, she can begin preparations to leave and handle Septimus herself. This has made up her mind for her–Septimus had crossed paths with the wrong woman. He imagined the years away from Tevinter had dulled her wits, but it was very much the opposite. And perhaps it is her newly discovered protective nature that makes her so cold now, killing the adder in the tower that she’s made to be a place of peace and healing. When the girl is gone, the door shut behind her, Vanora exhales slowly.

She has to go to Maretus.  _Now_.

* * *

 

Filip doesn’t answer right away, looking a bit pale even for a southerner, but Maretus is no stranger to that. He’s tried to make himself approachable to the Inquisition soldiers, but some of them have an ingrained nervousness around anyone who would be considered a superior officer.

“No need to stutter, soldier. Drill’s over. I’m just another part of the Inquisition like you,” Maretus says to try and reassure the younger man.

“I–” Filip swallows, then shakes his head and puts his hands behind his back. It is an odd motion, almost as if he were standing to attention, but not quite. It makes Maretus narrow his eyes slightly.

“Filip,” and now his voice is firm, commanding. “Speak up. What is it?”

In the light of the lengthening afternoon, the only two left in the training yard while everyone else is off getting dinner or back in their rooms, Maretus realizes with a sudden clarity that something is not right. He tenses and his hand goes automatically to the only weapon he’s currently wearing, the dulled practice blade. He doesn’t have enough time to draw it before Filip whips his hands from behind his back, producing two wicked-looking daggers in his hands, neither of which are dulled in the slightest.

“ _Pracia_ ,” Maretus curses, swiveling out of the way just in time. The blade of one of Flilip’s daggers catches on his tunic and tears through it easily–the edge is extremely sharp. This is a planned attack, one that is meant to be done and over with quickly, if Maretus is any judge, but Filip, for whatever reason, choked when timing and surprise was of the essence.

This time when Filip recovers and comes at him again, Maretus has the practice blade out. It wouldn’t kill Filip, but that’s not what Maretus wants anyway. This has to be Septimus’ doing, he thinks as he parries a wild swing and pivots beyond the arc of the second dagger with a grunt. He should have sent a more skilled fighter, one who was used to wielding dual daggers. One that he didn’t know the fighting style of, that he hadn’t trained for months and months here in Skyhold. No doubt Septimus thought it a very convenient arrangement, but in doing so severely underestimated Maretus’ own skill. To attack him one on one in an open field? Stupid. Very stupid.

It wasn’t a bad plan on the surface, he muses as he darts nimbly away and to the side, pushing away another attack with the dulled blade and watching Filip intently. To any observer they are merely sparring, teacher and student after a class of drills, but once he is stabbed with one of them and falls, bleeding out or already dead? It wasn’t thought out through all the way.

Filip lunges forward and suddenly snaps Maretus’ full attention back to the fight, nearly grazing his cheek with a blade and coming at him with the other. It was a good move, though not expertly executed, but one that Maretus has seen before with dual-wielders and anticipates. He waits until the last second and ducks beneath the second attack, dropping his practice sword and stepping out of the way. Acting quickly, he leaps forward, tackling Filip to the ground heavily and rolling with him until they come out with Maretus beneath Filip and his arms around the younger man’s neck. The daggers both lay on the ground some distance from them, and Maretus tightens his hold while Filip desperately tries to pry his forearm away from his throat.

Rocking his weight, Maretus manages to flip them over and put a knee into the middle of Filip’s back, scrambling and grabbing his arms and pulling them backward at a severe angle. The younger man cries out and struggles, but can’t move against Maretus’ greater strength. Chest heaving from the bursts of exertion, he keeps Filip pinned while he catches his breath.

“I really hope,” he growls angrily, “that the reward Septimus offered you was worth all this trouble.”

Before Filip can say anything Maretus lets one of his arms go and grabs the other in a particular configuration, then twists and squeezes simultaneously and savagely, until he hears a sickening crackle as the shoulder dislocates out of its socket like he’s popping open a cork from a bottle. A scream comes from Filip’s mouth before he covers it and waits for him to pass out from the sudden pain. It doesn’t take long.

Glancing around to see if anyone was running over to see what the noise was, Maretus doesn’t notice anyone on the alert–in fact, he doesn’t see anyone around at all. Probably why Filip had chosen now to act. Leaving the inert form of the younger man on the ground for a moment, Maretus goes over and collects the daggers, sheathing them in their respective holders on the hidden belt he finds beneath Filip’s tunic. He removes that and belts it around himself before fetching his own practice sword and sheathing that. Satisfied, he slings Filip’s weight over his shoulders and grunts loudly at how heavy the unconscious man is, then sets off to his quarters.

Once there, he shoves Filip through one of the windows and climbs in after. When he drags the younger man to the auxiliary room, he is slowly starting to come around, but Maretus deposits him unceremoniously onto the floor, eliciting another keen of pain from him. Quickly, Maretus grabs the nearest thing–a sock–and uses it as a gag to stop the noise and glares at Filip.

“Shut up,” he snaps, then fetches the rope from his grappling hook and takes several minutes to roughly bind together Filip’s legs and functional arm. The other one bends at a sickening angle. “I can set your arm for you, but you will probably pass out again from the pain, and I’d really like you to answer some questions. I’m sure you can handle that, right?”

Filip nods, eyes wide and sweat rolling unabated down his face.

“Good, I’m glad you agree so we can have a civil conversation.” And without further ado he reaches out and braces one of his own elbows on one knee, popping Filip’s dislocated arm back the other way.

The scream that comes from him this time is louder than even the sock can properly muffle and Maretus winces, hoping it was enough to prevent anyone outside hearing. While he waits for the failed assassin to come around yet again, he goes and brings over a chair from his desk in the main room and sits Filip down in it, retying the rope around the chair. It isn’t the best job, but he wasn’t an interrogator and this is not his forte, but it’s enough to work, and the knots are all study and would hold against straining.

Once that is done and Filip still hasn’t regained consciousness, Maretus wonders if he’d be able to leave the man alone to get Vanora. He’s certain she should be here for this, but he’s unsure if he’s willing to risk leaving.

Unable to decide, he unbuckles the two belts from around his hips and sets them down. Unsheathing one of the daggers to study it, Maretus feels a quick drop and twist in his stomach when he sees an oily sheen along the edge of the blade. Poison. That’s why it didn’t matter if the assassin was as inept at duel-wielding as Filip–all he would have needed to do was nick Maretus’ skin, and any weapon poison worth its salt would have started effecting him only minutes after.

His free hand goes up to the tear in his tunic and feels his skin for any blood, any scratch but doesn’t feel any. His heart still pounds, though–would a superficial cut work, one he couldn’t feel? It depended on the poison and its potency. He  _needs_  to get Vanora. 

When a faint knocking comes from his main room, he casts a glance at the unconscious Filip, and then curses again. Just his luck–someone must have heard Filip scream again. Taking one last moment to be sure the gag is in place and his knots are secure, Maretus goes out to the main room and closes the door to the auxiliary room behind him. He sets the dagger belt on his desk on his way to the door and is about to open it when he remembers his torn tunic. Not much to do about it now, unless he wanted to greet his visitor shirtless. A flash of an instant passes as he considers it–but then decides against it. A tear could easily happen during a regular practice as much as an assassination attempt.

Steeling himself for whoever may stand outside his door, he opens it.

* * *

 

Something about her room suddenly feels strange and foreign, like the air is polluted with the aroma of that awful tea. Despite the coolness of the air outside she pulls open the only window in her room. Airing the place out seemed appropriate–she didn’t want to be breathing in aconite, nightshade and hemlock all night. Maker knows what that would do to her. She had been lucky to be so perceptive despite her absentmindedness. Poisoning drinks was easy enough, but boiling herbs in tea? That was a new one.

Vanora takes a few minutes to tidy up the room. The heavy notebook and ledger she had been working on are both closed and set aside on her desk. Her inkwell is capped, quills set atop the journals, and the teacup picked up off the surface of her desk. She brings it back to the tray, setting the little cup next to the teapot. The bread and cheese sits forgotten on the plate, but Vanora can’t bring herself to do anything with it. Any hint of an appetite is long gone, and she isn’t risking another dose of poison no matter how unlikely. Instead she leaves the food in place, straightening out her dress and picking up the tray. She locks her door behind her, heading down the stairs and setting the tray off to the side, asking one of the healers to bring it to the kitchens to get washed.

“If there’s any tea left throw it away. I thought I would try my own blend and it was  _vile_. Spare yourself the pain.”

The woman laughs and asks how the inventory of the stockroom was going. Vanora assures her they’re just about done; all that was left to do now was transferring all the messy notes into an official ledger they could keep in the stockroom. One of the nearby healers chimes in, mirroring the other’s appreciation for all the work. Everyone agreed it was a task that needed to be done weeks ago, but one that nobody was keen to do. Luckily all the mind numbing work had saved Vanora’s life. Finally she manages to extricate herself, telling the girls she needed a long walk to clear her head after so long cooped up in the stockroom. The moment she’s outside her pace picks up. She isn’t walking quickly enough to draw suspicion, but she’s walking much faster than normal.

It seems like the distance from the tower to Maretus’ rooms has doubled, maybe tripled, since last she’d visited. Likely it had something to do with the near death experience she’d just gotten through. Leah is no doubt feeling the effects of the tea by now. She’d be violently ill a while, and then the aconite would stop her heart. It wasn’t the most pleasant way to go, but it was a far cry better than most soldiers dealt with. If it had been Tevinter she would have had a long chat with someone talented in  _extracting_  information, and that would have been far, far worse than some tea of aconite, nightshade and hemlock.

Never before had Vanora passed so many people who wanted to greet her. Usually there was nothing more than a smile and a nod, acknowledging her presence as she wandered by. But today everyone seemed keen on greeting her by name. She couldn’t just breeze by, pretending everything is fine, so she slows to greet them in return. Thankfully none of them seem interested in holding an actual conversation. Finally, after what feels like an eon, she arrives at Maretus’ rooms. Vanora’s certain her hair is a bit of a mess, wisps of hair framing her face, the braid she’s twisted into a wreath at the back of her head loosening from the quick walk over. It doesn’t matter, she  _has_  to speak to Maretus.

There is an eerie silence after she knocks, and Vanora wonders if Maretus was still practicing. Couldn’t be–she’d seen the soldiers heading back towards the barracks. Her mind kicks into overdrive, wondering what could possibly be keeping him, when the door finally creaks open. It doesn’t open all the way, not at first–perhaps Maretus is just being particularly careful, but before he can do much of anything she’s pushing him out of the way, slipping between the partially ajar door, and closing it behind her.

“Maretus, we need to talk. It’s about the assassin. I found her. Definitely our spy as well from what I gathered. But I don’t think she was working alone. She  _couldn’t_  be working alone. Leah’s not the cleverest, and she’s certainly not capable of killing both of us. Septimus is brazen, but he can’t be  _that_  stupid. So there is another assassin, as we thought there might be. It’s just a matter of finding them.”

Vanora doesn’t bother mentioning that Leah won’t be a problem anymore, that she’s already dealt with that mess. For now they had to focus on finding her partner. Anyway the healers would likely find Leah on their own when she didn’t turn up.

* * *

 

Vanora pushes him aside with surprising strength, and he doesn’t resist the pressure of her hands on his chest, just below the tear in his tunic. His eyebrows go up when she tells him she discovered the assassin, and he wonders how she found out. He’s even more surprised to hear it was Leah–not because he knew the girl at all, but because she’d been the one they ran into sneaking him out of the tower. He wonders if she had seen him go in, if she knew they had known.

Was the assassin following her, or was Vanora worried she was being followed? That would explain how quickly she entered his room and shut the door. As she talks, he goes to the window on the opposite wall in a few long strides, glancing out to see if anyone was running toward the building before pulling the glass shutters together and locking them.

Moving back over to her, Maretus keeps part of his attention alert for sounds from the other room. The window in there is still open–if she suspects the other assassin to be following her, he would have to secure it quickly.

When she’s finished speaking, a grim line settles over his mouth. “You won’t have to look very far; he’s in my weapons room.”

Leading her in, Filip has regained consciousness and is staring wide eyed at the both of them, but Maretus ignores him for the moment and goes to the window and looks outside there, then closes the glass panes and locks them when he again sees nothing out of the ordinary. The sun is beginning its descent toward the horizon at this point, casting a golden glow to everything. It would be quite a pretty scene, the light cream of his walls and terra cotta of his floor warming up the entire suite of rooms nicely, but the pleasant aesthetic of the surroundings goes entirely unnoticed by all three people in them.

“He attacked me after I finished drilling the soldiers for the day. Waited for everyone else to head out to the barracks or the inn and came at me with dual daggers– _poisoned_  daggers.” He motions to the clean cut in the fabric of his tunic. “Nearly got me, too, but fortunately for me, he isn’t very good–something under other circumstances I’d feel personal responsibility for, but in this instance I’m glad for the incompetence.”

Shooting Filip a glance, he adds, “Seems I was lucky Septimus seemed to underestimate my abilities in a one-on-one combat situation, so I’m lucky the general altus understanding of martial skills has remained the same in my absence. Either that or it was meant to be much more of a surprise.” His gaze shifts back to Vanora. “You have good timing, though, as I haven’t had the chance to ask him anything.”

* * *

 

Maretus doesn’t seem to mind her nearly knocking him over in her hurry. Nobody was watching her as far as she could tell, but the sooner she was out of sight and back with Maretus the better… for more than one reason. But practicality wins out today–he could fight off physical attacks without the use of magic. Vanora would prefer  _not_  to deal with any sort of magic drama. All she wanted was this to be dealt with so she could slip away and go home. With all the assassin trouble she has nearly forgotten that she and Maretus have a lot to talk about…the death threat has managed to bind them back together, but she can’t be sure it’ll last past this. For now it doesn’t matter, and she pushes the thought away to focus on the present. 

While Vanora talks Maretus gives the room a once over, checking to make sure they were secure. Just because she thinks she had come unfollowed doesn’t mean that she actually has. He likely had better eyes for stragglers paying too much attention than she did. Vanora’s head is spinning out of control, a hundred thoughts fighting for attention as she stands, stone faced, and explains they’re not in the clear yet. But of course Maretus knows already, of course the two had struck at the same time…wasn’t that obvious? Once again she feels ridiculous, thinking the way someone intelligent would. But Septimus isn’t intelligent. Clever enough to get this far, yes, but not clever enough to actually pull the assassination off.

Vanora’s brows rise in surprise as she follows Maretus to his weapons room. Sure enough there’s a man tied down to a chair, still somewhat unconscious from whatever Maretus has done to him. Clearly it hadn’t been anything bad–the man wasn’t bleeding after all. When Maretus mentions daggers,  _poisoned_  daggers, Vanora’s attention snaps over to the tear in his shirt. It’s a clean cut right through the cloth. She nearly grabs him to check that he really  _hadn’t_  gotten nicked by the blades, not trusting his judgement enough to risk his life. After all, he’d been the one who insisted a wound that nearly killed him was ‘just a shallow cut.’ Maretus is right, of course. No altus without specific knowledge of military training would know what legionnaires were capable of, much less someone of Maretus’ stature and talent. Lips drawn into a tight line, Vanora shakes her head, muttering something about how stupid Septimus is under her breath.

“Let me see the tear. Just in case. I’m not taking risks, even with Septimus’ ridiculous assassination attempt.”

Really she’s only speaking up to warn him, not to ask. She doesn’t even give him time to reply before she’s invading his personal space, eyeing up the tear suspiciously. As though to remind her what’s at stake her tongue starts tingling, lips going numb again as she nearly rolls her eyes. Such an inconvenience. It’s a rather sizeable tear, large enough that she can easily see his skin through it. She bends her knees, lowering herself so she can get a better view of the skin. She shifts the fabric around, scanning his skin for any sign that the blade had cut him someplace out of sight. When she doesn’t see anything she slips her fingers through the fabric, skimming them over his skin to make sure she can’t feel anything either. Sometimes eyes missed the tiniest of cuts. When she’s run her hands over the entire area that lay beneath the cut, satisfied that he’s not going to drop dead, she pulls her hand away and stands up again.

“Well, you’re not dying by poison, so Septimus really  _has_  failed. Royally. Just wait until I get my hands on his filthy neck.”

She practically growls out the final threat, arms crossing over her chest as she looks at their new companion. The no-nonsense look is back on her face as she waits for him to wake up.

“I assume you’re more than capable of handling an interrogation, so you’re welcome to lead. I’ll try not to butt in too much.”

* * *

 

He shouldn’t have expected her to believe him–this is  _Vanora_ , after all, whose business it is to patch everyone in the Inquisition up, and who has patched him up personally more times than he can count on one hand. A few of those times were close, too close, and he’d waved them off as non-issues, so he can’t really even blame her for not trusting him. What if she did and he dropped like a stone in the middle of something because the poison had finally hit his system? No, in this instance he decides he does want to her to make absolutely certain he hadn’t been nicked in the fight.

But when she slides her hand in through the gaping tear to run her fingers along his skin, he sucks in a breath. He  _knows_ , he knows that she is doing so in a professional capacity, feeling for any small cuts that her eyes couldn’t detect from such a sharp blade, but that doesn’t stop his flesh rising in little goosebumps at her touch. The cool of her hands is in direct contrast to the heat of his skin, still warmer than usual from the exertion of fighting Filip not too long ago. Perhaps that’s why his heart still thudded in his chest, and no other reason.

Then the her coolness retreats and he has to swallow before his breathing returns to a normal depth, and she’s growling out a threat against Septimus. She’s sharp and angry and he’s never seen her quite like this before and it’s… invigorating. Vanora has never been completely detached by any means, but she usually retains a cool and calm demeanor, and to see such a spark igniting through her stirs his own blood in a similar manner. He doesn’t have the personal investment that she does, not knowing this Septimus at all, but he is infuriated to be used simply as a pawn to get to someone else, to be  _used_  in such a manner.

They both turn their attention to Filip, bound to the chair and gagged by a sock, fully awake now and watching them through obvious pain.

At her invitation to take the lead, Maretus goes over to Filip, arms folded across his chest. “Filip,” he begins. “I know you, I’ve trained you. I don’t want to hurt you more, but I will if I remove your gag and you cry out. All we want are answers to our questions. I can’t believe you’ve been a part of this blackmail the entire time I’ve known you, so I can only assume that you’ve been drawn into it as well through more insidious means, just as we have.” He pauses, studying Filip’s face.

“We’re going after the man who started all this mess, so whatever he’s got on you and threatened you with holds no water. Are you willing to cooperate with us? If you do so, Vanora here will look at your arm once we’re finished, and will set it properly.”

Filip nods quickly, and coughs a few times after Maretus removes the gag. He doesn’t relax, however, waiting to see if the younger man goes back on his word and starts shouting, but he doesn’t. He just looks terrified.

“I–I’ll answer whatever you want. Just… just make sure my husband and son are  _safe_ ,” he stammers, voice cracking.

Maretus nods. “I will make sure of it. We already know who is behind all this, but I’m not assuming that you were in contact with him directly. All I want to know is if you know of anyone else working for him, anyone else here in Skyhold.”

Shaking, Filip breathes heavily for a few moments, eyes scanning the floor in front of his feet as if the answer were written there. “I… I heard m-my contact mention something about one other here, but I didn’t catch the name–I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He must mean the assassin Vanora already found out. Hopefully those were all the lose pieces of the puzzle they didn’t know about and so wouldn’t have to worry about many more. “Who is your contact, do you know them?”

“N-never gave a name, sir. Just… just threatened me with information about Joen and our son and what… what would happen to them if I didn’t… if I didn’t–”

Maretus nods. “I understand. Where would you meet them?”

“A little… cave just north of here. I was given a time and the place and that’s where I got the instructions and–and where they gave me the daggers–” All of a sudden he bursts out, straining against the rope with his good arm, the other resting uselessly in his lap. “Sir, I’m so sorry! I didn’t want to fight, to try and kill you! I just… I thought if I didn’t they’d kill them. Please don’t let them die!”

He puts his hands on Filip’s shoulders to still him, pressing him back into the chair until he calms down again. “Don’t worry anymore. If you tell me where your family is at, I will make sure they are safe. Tell me exactly where this cave is.”

After Filip gets out the directions on how to get to the Septimus’ agent’s meeting place, Maretus turns back to Vanora. “Do you have any questions for him?” Unspoken in his expression is the fact that the will have to figure out what to do with him once they finish questioning him.

* * *

 

While Maretus approaches the man, apparently someone by the name of Filip, Vanora stands back. Her lips are drawn into a tight, grim line, her face an unflinching mask that warns she won’t be tolerating any sort of nonsense. She’ll get what she wants or Filip will pay the price. Despite the fact that he’s apparently a soldier Filip’s blubbering more than Leah did, telling the two that his husband and son were at risk. At least Septimus knew that family and friends were always the easiest buttons to push. Threaten them with enough show of force and most people turned into putty. You had to be very certain of your abilities to best your opponent to ignore their threats, and Filip was obviously not a threat to Septimus in any way. He was easy to control and had easy access to Maretus.

Vanora’s arms are crossed tightly over her chest as she listens to the exchange going on before her. Who would Septimus send to be the liaison between himself and the assassins? Someone more qualified for this sort of work. Although Vanora’s opinion of Septimus was decreasing by the minute she’d rather overestimate his abilities than find herself in an unpleasant position. The question of who is yet unanswered, and Filip seems to have no useful information to suggest the identity of their middle man or woman.

Once more Filip breaks out, apologizing profusely and trying to emphasize how much he didn’t want to do this, how it was only to save his family. Something turns unpleasantly in the pit of Vanora’s stomach and the expression on her face hardens.  _This_  is why she’d learned to resent Tevinter so much. Manipulation was one thing, but throwing innocents into the mix, using them like pawns, was not something she approved of. If you wanted someone dead you hired someone who killed people for a living, not some soldier from the middle of nowhere trying to keep his family safe.

_Weak. Petty. Cowardly._

Her fingers tighten into fists as the anger comes back two fold–she’s still upset at being attacked by someone, but now it’s made worse by the method. It’s easier not to know that he’s got a family he’s protecting, to simply see him as an assassin and leave it at that. What are they to do when they’re done here? It’s only logical to kill the man…even if it upsets Vanora all over again. Killing Leah was one thing, she hadn’t bothered explaining, just crying while she took her own medicine. But this is different,  _messier_ , and Vanora doesn’t like messy.

“Your fellow assassin is no longer in the picture–she’s been…  _dealt_   _with_. So I would be very careful if I were you. Are you sure that’s  _all_  you know? Nothing else of use? Even the tiniest of details can be useful. Your contact is a man? And this cave, is there a particular way in, anything you have to do to announce yourself? It would be unfortunate if we were caught in a dangerous situation, don’t you think?”

What happens to your family if Maretus ends up dead? She doesn’t voice the question, unwilling to stoop to the level of Septimus despite her anger and impatience. Nearly glaring at him down the bridge of her nose Vanora steps closer, adjusting her gaze to the arm that has clearly been broken and then reset.

“If you’re absolutely sure you’ve given us everything, and I mean  _everything_ , then I’ll set that properly for you. Then you’re welcome to tell Maretus where your husband and son are. After we visit your contact they’ll be perfectly safe, but I suppose we can check on them nonetheless.”

She doesn’t say anything about what his fate will be, whether or not he’ll get to see his family again. Why couldn’t this be easy like Leah? She didn’t know anything about the girl beyond her work in the tower. There’s a way they could handle this that doesn’t involve killing him, surely. The question is only how to ensure that he doesn’t turn on them. Perhaps keeping him locked up until they have what they need, then letting him go back to his family? She isn’t sure how to proceed with that, glancing briefly over to Maretus, wondering what he’s expecting to happen to Filip.

* * *

 

“I–yes, yes,” Filip answers her. “It was a man. I’m… I remember now. He had… a high voice. Tevinter accent. But I never saw his face.” He grimaces in pain, sweat rolling freely down the side of his dark face. “There’s no special password if that’s what your asking–just show up at the right time and right place.”

“Did you have another meeting with this contact set up already?” Maretus adds amid Vanora’s line of questioning.

“Only… I was to leave a message behind the loose stone on the outer northern wall once… once I had done what they wanted. I suppose then I would have been contacted again. I don’t know anything else.” Filip’s eyes widen at Vanora’s veiled threat. “Please–don’t kill me, you can’t kill me, I didn’t want any part of this, just… I just want to go back to my family. I just want them to be safe.”

Maretus’ stomach twists unpleasantly, following Vanora’s implied thought. They can’t kill this man–he is as much a pawn of Septimus’ game as Maretus is. He isn’t some spy come down to hunt them in cold blood, but a Fereldan man with a family he didn’t want to lose or see come to harm.

He turns to face Vanora, her expression imperious and directed sharply at the man in the chair, and leans close to her to speak in a low voice. “I don’t think we’ll get anything more from him. I believe that he knows nothing more. Time to reset his arm properly.”

While she tends to that, Maretus watches without flinching. He hopes his instincts are right about Filip. He considers himself to be a good judge of character, especially having trained and drilled and sweat with this young man. He broke so easily once alone in this room–any trained Tevinter spy would have proven much harder. Or would they? Perhaps he  _was_  a hardened assassin trained to open up with tears to garner emotional sentimentality and sympathy. Perhaps this “husband and son” Filip spoke of were mere constructs to keep himself alive.

Shaking away the thought, Maretus decides that can’t be the case. If he were so trained as to have a cover story such as that and be able to act so convincingly at will, he would have been far better with those daggers than he was. It was almost child’s play for Maretus to turn the tide of what otherwise should have been an exemplary surprise assassination. Even easier would have been to simply bump into him in passing and covertly cut him somewhere, with poisoned blades. No… he truly believes Filip is telling the truth.

He knows he isn’t going to kill this man, isn’t even going to entertain the notion more than he already has, which was little indeed to begin with. As Vanora works, he watches, frowning. “I am going to write a discharge for you to be released from the Inquisition’s services effective immediately due to a lack of conviction and distraction from a family matter. Once it’s approved by Commander Cullen–which I expect will take no more than a day or two–you will leave immediately and head back home to your family. If,” and a gravelly threat punctuates his tone now, “we discover you have  _not_  done as I say and are in fact lingering, or even following us, I will kill you. Do you understand me clearly?”

“Y-yessir.”

* * *

 

Vanora doesn’t trust the man, doesn’t like putting her life in the hands of someone entirely foreign to her, but she trusts Maretus’ judgement. If this is all some very elaborate lie, a carefully constructed situation, they know what he looks like and Maretus will take him out the moment he crosses paths with them next. Anyway, she doesn’t think Septimus clever enough to hire someone well trained enough to concoct a situation like this. It doesn’t hurt that she isn’t keen on killing two people in one day. The reminder that Leah’s probably dead by now makes her stomach churn slightly, but she ignores it. One less loose end to tie up.

Exhaling slowly she nods at Maretus’ decision to reset the arm properly. Pushing her skirt out of her way Vanora kneels, running her hands over the joint to take note of all the damage. Her brows lift as she goes and she glances over her shoulder at Maretus.

“Remind me never to give you reason to do this to my arm.”

Maretus begins to explain how things would pan out from here. It seemed entirely reasonable, and it’s one less body to handle. Vanora wants to believe that Filip is just caught in the crossfire, and she’s inclined to believe he is. To have him reunited with his family, even with everything going on, makes her feel better. Not  _everything_  had to end in death. With that settled she looks over at Filip. He’s still scared and very much out of sorts, but he’s alive. It’s more than Leah can say.

”Your husband, Joen I believe? Why isn’t he here with your son? Wouldn’t it be safer in Skyhold with all the civil war?”

Filip takes a moment to process the question and that she isn’t about to kill him. When he opens his mouth to respond she strikes, snapping the joint fully into place. Her hand snaps to his mouth, stifling his surprised shout, and then dropping it back to her side when he seems to have regained control of himself. Once again she runs her fingers over his shoulder and arm, pressing here and there to see what bothered him the most. Satisfied with her work she stands up.

“You’ll have to come to the tower for me to finish properly setting that, but you’ll be fine. It should heal nicely, though you may have some lingering sensitivity, and the muscles might be stiff a while.”

One hand rubs the lower half of her face, and Vanora sighs.

“We may as well go now. If we’re lucky nobody will have gone to find Leah.”

Her attention shifts over to Maretus, one brow raised in question.

“Or should I bring the things here so you can keep an eye on him?”

* * *

 

The snap that sets Filip’s joint back into place he takes the best, though not by much with his pained shout muffled by Vanora’s hand.

Maretus answers her question for him. “Many volunteers for the Inquisition didn’t come with their families if the trek is too far, or one of the members unfit for travel. It’s not unusual.”

Filip touches his arm tenderly, wincing but not actively sweating anymore. Vanora shifts her attention back to Maretus, standing a pace behind her while she worked, wondering where it would be best to finish Filip’s care.

Maretus doesn’t answer right away, weighing Vanora’s question and watching Filip.

“I think it should be fine to take him back to the tower. Both him and the other assassin have been neutralized, and there isn’t another, is there Filip?” The question is forceful, receiving a quick shaking of the younger man’s head in answer. “While you do that I can pen the discharge letter to the Commander and drop it off. One more moment and I’ll untie you.” He turns back to Vanora.

Touching her arm lightly, Maretus indicates for her to step with him outside the room for a moment to speak in private.

“Not that I think he’s going to be a problem anymore,” he says in a low voice, standing close to her outside the room, “but I’d still rather not take any chances. Once you’ve seen to him, will you be able to meet me somewhere so we can discuss what to do next? I don’t think that this contact of his in located inside Skyhold, if he needs to be left a message that we’ve been killed, so if you wanted to meet at the inn instead of back here, I don’t suspect we will be in any danger of eavesdroppers there. I leave the choice up to you.”

Once she’s settled on the location, they go back into the room with Filip, and Maretus sets about untying his knots. “I’d apologize for the restraints, but you did try to kill me,” he says flatly, not looking up from his hands as he goes. “Vanora will finish setting your arm and decide if you’re fit enough to leave the care of the tower. Once you are, and once you receive word that your discharge has been approved, I don’t want to see you in Skyhold grounds again.”

Finishing and starting to coil the rope up in his hands, he stands again, looking down the curve of his nose at Filip, eyes hard as fossilized amber. “Do as she says from here on out.”

* * *

 

“Back to the tower it is, then. It’ll be an easy fix, everything’s right there within reach.”

She doesn’t mention that there’ll probably be some commotion at some point. Leah’s absence is bound to be noticed sooner or late. Hopefully she’ll have time to see to the rest of this situation before any discoveries are made. Vanora isn’t keen on being around for the big reveal of Leah’s body. When Maretus touches her arm she turns, gathering that he wants to speak to her. With Filip still tied up they step outside.

“Better to be safe than sorry…or in this case, dead.”

There’s still so much to discuss. One threat dealt with and a whole other pile of problems to deal with. They’d start with this liaison, then they’d have Septimus. Of course somewhere in there Vanora knew they’d have to talk about everything. The threat to their lives was a good distraction, but it didn’t change the fact that Vanora had been completely exposed and Maretus doubtlessly had a litany of questions for her.

“I think the tavern is best. It’s familiar ground and the place is too busy for anyone to overhear us. Nobody pays us any attention anyway, we’re practically fixtures there.”

If anyone saw them together heading to and from his quarters, however, it would be strange. Granted they likely would assume some sort of scandalous tryst first, but it was better to be in a place that was packed full of people that didn’t pay them any attention. With their meetup scheduled they return to the auxiliary room, and Maretus begins untying Filip. Vanora is once again stone faced, watching impassively as the knots are undone and Maretus gives Filip his final warning. The way he glares down his nose almost makes Vanora smirk–for all his hatred of her class he seems to be doing quite well using one of their favored techniques. Looking down your nose makes you appear instantly superior and in control.

Vanora waits until Maretus is done coiling the rope before stepping away from his immediate area. She crosses the room to the door and opens it. Glancing over her shoulder she grins, the gesture reminiscent of a predator cornering its prey.

“Come now, we’ve got work to do. No dawdling.”

Once Filip shuffles over to her side she shoots Maretus a glance, nodding to affirm that she’d see him later, and pushes Filip out the door and towards the tower.


	7. Chapter 7

**vii.**

Once she leaves with Filip in tow, the young man most assuredly cowed substantially between the two of them, Maretus shuts the door behind them and takes several moments to scrub his hands over his face and take a few deep breaths.

While he hadn’t the time to essentially debrief with Vanora about  _how_  exactly Leah, the other assassin, was neutralized, which meant that until word somehow got out to the direct agent up, they were in no immediate danger.

That thought echoes again in his mind, and he feels a tiny bit of weight lift from him. There is still much left to deal with, and they are certainly not anywhere near in the clear yet, but they could at least breathe for a little while without looking over their shoulders.

He doesn’t think they should rest on their laurels or take too much time before their next step, but they at least didn’t have to worry about any impending assassinations anymore. Thinking on it, he is a little surprised that Septimus sent an assassin for  _both_  of them, when he had sent his initial letter to Maretus. That must mean he never expected Maretus to give Vanora up, or betray her. Either that or he was going off the assumption that Maretus would do so immediately and intended to have him dealt with just as quickly.

It doesn’t matter anymore–they were wise to his machinations to work against Vanora with Maretus as his pawn, and he would not get the better of them now. Now  _they_  could maneuver and get the upper hand.

That thought startles him. He has never been one for the political dance, and he wonders if this is what it felt like to be part of the altus class. To always have someone plotting against you and needing to outpace them and wind the strings so they get caught in the trap instead of you. Maretus stares at his desk, finding a sudden new appreciation for what Vanora must have gone through back in Tevinter, before she left. Maybe it was why she left.

Such musings are for another time, and a shake of his head sends them back to join all the other things he and Vanora had yet to deal with, that he had yet to deal with.

To distract himself from thinking about all those things, he goes to his desk and pulls out a blank parchment, uncorking his ink well and setting about to pen Filip’s discharge recommendation to Commander Cullen. Vanora hadn’t set a time with him to meet at the inn, but at this point it didn’t really matter. He would go there one his way back from delivering this missive and either find her there or wait for her. That would be the most normal thing he’s done in days, and it is both comforting and nerve-wracking to him, feeling the shadow of all they hadn’t talked about in the back of his mind.

Raking his off-hand through his hair, Maretus forces himself to focus on getting the discharge done. One step at a time, and they still had more to deal with concerning Septimus.

* * *

 

Filip gives no indication of trying to escape. In fact he practically cowers before her, shuffling nervously as she steps beside him and starts off towards the tower. She has to turn, shooting him a warning look, before he picks up his pace to match hers. He’s still cradling his arm, the limb doubtlessly sore to say the least. Now that it’s properly set it should pain him less, but it will still take weeks for it to properly heal. He’ll have to care for it, making sure to stretch it properly when he can move it again, else it will lock up and lose its range of movement.

Ever the healer. Vanora almost rolls her eyes as they walk. The man just tried to murder Maretus, the person she is closest to, and she’s already preparing to give him the rundown of how to care for his wound. She can’t help it and grudgingly admits that she’s glad they didn’t have to kill him. Despite the unpleasant circumstances that crossed their paths the man seemed a good sort, trapped by forces beyond his comprehension and thrust into a mess that he wanted nothing to do with.

Taking their time to cross the courtyard Vanora keeps careful watch over Filip. Nobody stops to talk to her this time, either satisfied from their first meeting or assuming that she’s busy with Filip and deciding not to intrude. When they finally get to the tower things are even keel. Nobody is screaming or crying, which suggests that Leah is still ‘sleeping’ in her room. A few of the healers greet her, Vanora’s calm, professional smile making an appearance as she returns their greetings.

“Someone took a rather nasty fall during practice today. Practically shattered his elbow.”

One of the nearest healers pouts, an ‘aww’ on her lips as she shakes her head.

“A good thing Vanora was nearby. She’ll get your arm set in no time and it’ll be good as new!”

Filip doesn’t say anything, but he can at least force an uneasy smile. It’s not uncommon that injuries make people quiet or awkward, so it doesn’t faze either of the healers. They return to their work, backs turned to Vanora and her patient. Pointing to one of the chairs against the wall she nods in the direction, a silent order to sit down. Crossing the room she reaches for what she’ll need–a smooth piece of wood to act as a splint, a long strip of bandage, and some thicker fabric used to make a sling. Returning to Filip she eyes his arm, assessing how best to set it. The man doesn’t budge, breath rapid and shallow as she stands there.

“Calm down and breathe you idiot. You’re going to be just fine.”

Though she snaps at him it does what she wants, Filip taking a deep breath and focusing to calm his breathing. When he’s breathing steadily again, still pale despite the semblance of calm, she bends down to lift his arm carefully. The piece of wood is set on one side of his arm, bracing against the skin as she starts to wrap the bandage around. The long strip of fabric goes from his forearm to halfway up his shoulder. Satisfied with the wrapping that holds his arm in place, bent so the elbow sets properly, she reaches for the wider swath of fabric. It only takes a minute to slip it over his shoulder, knotting it into a sling and making sure his arm sits properly.

“There. See, nothing traumatic. Make sure you can move your hand alright, that the bandage isn’t too tight. Can’t have your entire arm falling off.”

* * *

 

Luck is on his side, for the Commander is in his office when Maretus arrives. He speaks briefly with him about Filip, being careful not to mention anything that might be incriminating, though stressing that he feels certain that the family stress is having an effect on his morale and performance, and should be released from his duties and sent home. Standing at attention, Maretus waits patiently while the Commander reads over his dismissal. When he’s finished, he looks up and nods, setting the paper down on his desk amid a pile of others. Maretus remembers those days, dealing with a stack of reports taller than the span of your hand, but says nothing of that now.

“Approved. I’d rather have recruits who are fully committed. Better for this him to go home now and possibly come back and rejoin after everything is resolved than have him worry and be a casualty later because we wouldn’t let him go. I’ll sign off on it and have it taken to him.”

“Would it be possible for someone to be spared to escort him? He has a young son.”

That makes the Commander pause and look up from his desk, considering. “I believe that we can spare two scouts to see him home safely,” he says at length.

“Thank you, Commander.”

“If that’s everything.”

Maretus doesn’t salute him, because it’s not the place for that, but he does give a polite bow and sees himself out.

Another thing dealt with, another step closer to their ultimate goal–of which the exact details he needs to suss out with Vanora. With that thought in mind, occupying as much space as it could to keep other thoughts regarding Vanora at bay, he heads to the inn, to their usual table.

By now the sun has nearly set, the last orange rays overcome by the purpling of the dusk. Torches are already lit along the courtyards of Skyhold, with large braziers on the ground level helping illuminate the pathways. The busiest bustle of the day was over, but many people would not be retiring for a few hours yet. As he draws near, bright light emits from the inn’s glass-paned windows, and the sound of laughter and loud chatter reaches him when he is still a considerable distance away.

He expected they’d have a meal first, wait for the rowdiest of the people to drink their fill and wind down or leave, then have enough time to discuss what they should do next. With everything that went on this afternoon, he hasn’t eaten since breakfast, and his stomach is sternly reminding him of that upon entering. The only question is, is she here already and if so should he meet her first, or should he wait to grab a bite for her to arrive if she isn’t?

A persistent rumble through his stomach demanding a meal makes his decision for him, so he goes to acquire himself a meal and a watered drink and, seeing that it is still empty of her presence, settles down at their table to wait for her to arrive.

* * *

 

With Filip’s arm set it’s time for him to head back to the barracks. Vanora still doesn’t trust him not to run off, the paranoia of home resurfacing with a vengeance, and sends one of the healers off with him to ‘make sure he doesn’t hit his arm trying to get inside.’ If the healer finds the request odd she doesn’t say anything and follows Filip out of the tower.

Vanora is in the middle of replacing the extra bandages when she hears the scream. It isn’t the scream of someone in pain, she knows those well enough, but a noise that clearly reflects horror and shock.  _Leah_. She had hoped to be gone from the tower when they found her, but it seems that luck is not on her side today. Marvelous. Taking a slow breath she follows one of the healers upstairs, the handful of healers left congregating around the open door of Leah’s room.

“What’s wrong?” asks one of them, the girl next to her shrugging.

“Emily what’s going on?”

The woman who’d screamed, Emily, was pale as a sheet, her hands shaking and her eyes wide. Frustrated by the lack of response the other healer walks over to see what it is that’s so disturbed her, only to find Leah dead in bed, residual sick on her dress from the last stages of the poison. In an instant everyone knows what’s happened, Emily sitting down on the floor near the open door. Speculation on Leah’s cause of death immediately begins, one of the more popular guesses being bad food that had made her so sick she’d died.

“Ladies, ladies, move please,” Vanora says, pushing her way through to the door. She goes into the room, inspecting Leah, opening her mouth, examining her eyes and the color of her skin. After a ‘thorough inspection’ Vanora stands up and sighs, hands set on her hips.

“It looks like fever took her. Perhaps due to some sort of bad food. Now everyone needs to stay calm, alright? Someone go get a soldier to help move her someplace cool. We shall handle her cremation tomorrow, yes?”

Murmurs of assent fill the area and Vanora sends off one of the older girls. It takes a painfully long time to get the soldier there. Leah is wrapped in her bedsheets like a mummy, another soldier joining a few moments later. The two of them manage to pick her up and walk her body downstairs. They say something about where they’ll bring her, but Vanora isn’t paying them much attention. Her stomach rumbles, another reminder that she has a meeting at the tavern she needs to head to.

But she waits. While the healers try to process what’s happened Vanora consoles them, waiting until they are stable and calm enough to go on. She shoos them out of the tower insisting they take the evening and tomorrow morning off. There will be more important things to attend to. When they’re finally all gone Vanora makes off for the tavern as fast as she can. She’s late and Maretus is already there, a plate of food before him, waiting at their table.

Looking over the crowd of people she waits for him to turn her way, making eye contact and nodding over to the bar–she would be right there, but food first. Once she has her plate and drink in hand she makes her way over to the table. Setting her food down first she takes the sea across from Maretus and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Apologies, I was held up. The ladies found my would-be assassin just before I left. I had to attend to the issue.”

* * *

 

When she catches his eye, he gives her a nod and a small motion with his hand, indicating he would wait for her. Of course he would–they were there for a reason just beyond their traditional sharing of meals together. When she joins him with a full plate and a drink for herself, he pauses in his own meal to wait for her. At her apology, however, both his dark eyebrows go up.

“Found the assassin?” he echoes. “You… left her there?” Tilting his head a bit, his eyebrows draw down and together as he leans just slightly over the table toward her. Not enough to make a real difference, but more in the sentiment of doing so. “What happened with her? All you’ve said so far is that it was Leah and that she was taken care of.”

The idea of Vanora having to kill one of her own healers turns his stomach for an instant. He knows she wouldn’t do something like that unless it was necessary, but after having dealt with Filip, Maretus can’t help but wonder what sort of leverage was used to force Leah into moving against her own head healer. Now that he thinks back, he can remember seeing her around before–he thinks even back at Haven, but he can’t be completely certain–and surely she couldn’t have been wanting all that time to attack Vanora. He doesn’t know her, however, unlike Filip, and so cannot be as confident as he was with the soldier. But surely, Leah had to have been in the same sort of blackmail situation as Filip–otherwise, wouldn’t she have moved against Vanora much sooner?

He breaks all these thoughts by reaching for his drink and taking a sip. It’s heavily watered down, but that was what he asked for, wanting as clear a head as he could have for all the plans they needed to make. So much was before them, it overshadowed all the things they would eventually need to deal with, between one another. Never mind that all those issues were brought into light by the selfsame situation, but it all needed to wait. If they didn’t deal with the threat of Septimus, it would hardly matter if they dealt with anything else that his letter dragged into the open.

He hasn’t even allowed himself the time to properly consider everything–from their confrontation about her true identity, and his, to how he felt about it, about her because of or even despite having that knowledge now. There hadn’t been time, hadn’t been time with the more immediate threat of assassinations, and there still isn’t time for it. Things weren’t moving so quickly as to feel as if they were spiraling out of control–indeed, now that they’d dealt with the two would-be assassins within Skyhold and knew about the contact location, they were now beginning to hold the upper hand and could take things at a more controlled rather than purely reactionary pace, but he wouldn’t sit on his laurels just to try and untangle things he might regret later, and he’s sure she wouldn’t want to do so, either.

* * *

 

Vanora settles down into the familiar seat, her view from the chair unchanged as ever. Still the entire room before her, still plenty of soldiers and commoners chatting and drinking and eating–the faces are much the same as ever. But the two of them, she and Maretus, are very much changed. Everything has been drawn forth into the light for better or for worse. Vanora leans towards it being for the worst, practicality and pessimism mixing together, but dares to hope that it might edge towards better. No more lies to keep from him would be a great relief. Although they are as thoughtless as breathing Vanora cannot extinguish the small hope that perhaps he will accept it and she will find an ally, another one of the few who knew her for who she is beyond the titles.

Of course, there are still plenty of things to be done before any of that can be handled. She can worry about his potential rejection later. He has made it clear that there is no love lost between him and the altus class, so Vanora can only thank her stars that he hasn’t thrown her to the wolves the moment he confronted her. Only the shared danger has kept them together, and Vanora cannot be certain of what will happen when the danger has passed. But first there are explanations to be given, plans to be made.

“Yes, I left her there. I could hardly go carrying a body around without arousing suspicion. Throwing her out a window was equally stupid. There could be nothing that would point to murder. Luckily, she had thought the same when she came for me.”

Picking at her bread Vanora changes gears, reaching for the cheese instead and taking a bite. Murder isn’t clean–it’s messy business, no matter how elegant your form of death happens to be. Even poison in it’s purest, strongest forms leaves some trace behind. Nothing is perfect, and it is a lesson Leah learned the hard way.

”She poisoned my tea. Well, she made me poison tea if we’re being precise. Aconite, hemlock and nightshade steeped in hot water, administered to whomever you seek dead. Not the nicest combination, but I’ve had worse. I can only conclude that she took the herbs when helping me take stock. The ledger was tampered with and my original counts of the three herbs replaced with lower numbers to avoid suspicion.”

Vanora trails off there, face set in a serious, though slightly distant, expression. Her lips are drawn into a line, eyes glazed for a moment as she recalls the unpleasant exchange between the two. Bringing herself back to the present she lets out a slow breath.

“When I realized what was going on I insisted she share in the tea, since she’d been so kind as to make it for me. She was very compliant, drank the entire pot and then headed off to bed.”

It is the nicest way Vanora can manage to say that she forced Leah to drink her own poison and then shove off so it looked like she’d died of natural causes and prevent any blowback. Her face is grim but steady, accepting the fact that this is the first person who has ever died at her hands. Nobody had laid hands on her enemies in Tevinter, she didn’t need physical violence to achieve her means. But now she had breached both at once. Later, when she is alone and unable to sleep, she will feel guilty. It will make her feel ill, and maybe she’ll actually be sick from it, but for now she buries it an reminds herself that it was necessary. It was her or Leah, and dying wasn’t on her to do list.

* * *

 

What a deadly combination. Maretus is no herbalist or poisoner, but he recognizes that each of the herbs alone would do damage. All three together seemed like Leah trying to ensure that there was no other outcome than death. And to hear Vanora calmly describe what happened… No–Maretus studies her more closely, and can see a ghost of a tremor in her fingers as they hover around the cheese on her plate, and that there is a pallor to her face. It would be largely unnoticed due to the already pale hue of her skin, but he’d seen her enough to know that she was even more so than usual.

Tiny, almost unacknowledged nods move his head to her debrief. Recognizing now that she is distancing herself from the act, Maretus doesn’t press any further for detail–details that he really doesn’t need to know, anyway. They weren’t so important except that the threat was now removed. Idly, he wonders if this is the first time she’s killed anyone.

“I imagine that it won’t be discovered that she was poisoned,” he says in a low voice, wanting even in the controlled din of the tavern to not bring attention to his words. “I don’t know much about herbs, but as deadly as those three are, I can’t imagine they are as traceless, but I don’t think anyone will have any reason to suspect foul play.”

Maretus takes a bite of his food, more absentminded than not, a habit rather than conscious thought. In his mind he is reviewing the directions and instructions they obtained from Filip, weighing options.

“He said he was to report back a week after his initial command to initiate the attempt,” he says when his mouth is clear again, idly and slowly spinning his fork in his fingers as he speaks, staring at nothing on the table. “Which was about two days ago, so that leaves us with four days–three and a half now, actually, as the meeting time is in the dark of morning before sunrise.

“That gives us more than enough time, I would think, to make a plan. We need to figure out how we’re going to approach this contact and what we’re going to do when we do.” He spins the fork again. “I think it might be a good idea for me to scout out the place much sooner. Find its exact location and layout, determine if we might be able to ambush this contact somehow when the time comes.”

All at once, Maretus seems to come back to the present moment, blinking and looking up at her face again. “Though,” he adds, an afterthought coming to him, “I wonder if it would be possible to impersonate this contact. Perhaps you could pretend to be your would-assassin, at least for a short time, and I could lay in wait somewhere to apprehend the contact when they try to flee, or intercept if they attack you and we can work more information from them.” He gives her a shrug. “A very loose idea of a plan, but perhaps we can make it into something viable.”

* * *

 

If Maretus has any critique of her methods or objects in any way shape or form he does nothing to make them clear. There is a very real possibility that he’s judging her silently, drawing conclusions about what murdering her own comrade meant regarding her overall character. Talking about it so calmly, so distantly as though it wasn’t important enough to merit more detailed recollection, certainly doesn’t help her case if he is judging her. What sort of person talked about murder so calmly? Cold hearted people, those who’s jobs were to end life or who cared little for it and had no qualms about ending the lives of any who opposed them.

Maybe he did think her a monster, now more than ever, but she couldn’t bring herself to try and explain how unsettled she is, how certain she is that she will never forget the look on Leah’s face as she drank the tea and begged for Vanora to let her live. No doubt it will be the source for nightmares throughout her life. Tightening her muscles to keep from shuddering at the mere idea of the nightmares that were to come Vanora forces herself back to Maretus, pushing everything down again. If she can get through tonight, night terrors and all, then she will be one step closer to dealing with all the fallout.

Leaving her food alone now Vanora laces her fingers together and sets them on the table as he speaks, voicing his thoughts on what their next steps should be. The cynical part of Vanora that had grown strong during her years in Tevinter wondered if they had less time than Maretus thought. How could they be sure that Filip had told the truth, or that Septimus wasn’t accounting for time the same way they were? Of course, there was no way to know, and she had no genuine reason to believe Filip had been lying, but even if she had doubts about his honesty it didn’t mean they had the luxury of waiting around doing nothing, hoping that Septimus would give up after this failed assassination and go back to his life. He wasn’t the cleverest, but he wasn’t stupid. Nobody went out of their way to assassinate someone to just drop the issue if it didn’t work out.

“Regardless of how we choose to move forward thoroughly scouting the area in advance is a sound move. No matter what happens we need to know the terrain and exit options as well as possible. Hopefully, it won’t come down to requiring any sort of exit strategy, ideally, this will all go as planned no matter how we chose to proceed.”

Vanora isn’t keen on the idea of an outward all-out ambush. It’s too brash and risky. Though she admits, it would be the most straightforward approach. They knew where and when the contact would be coming, so why not just snatch them and go someplace safe to chat? But Maretus has another idea, one that is a little more subtle. If the contact had never met Filip and Leah face-to-face, only leaving messages with instructions, then it wasn’t a half bad plan. She nods as he speaks, trying to work the idea into something a little more structured in the ways of a plan.

“A direct ambush makes me a bit uneasy. We would know the land if you scout it, but how many times has the contact visited there to leave messages? Surely they would know it better and be able to make a break for it the moment they saw us coming.”

Unlacing her fingers she sets her hands in her lap. If they were careful, and they always were, then this actually might work out. Add a little luck and it might even go according to plan.

“It would be possible to impersonate Leah, if only for a brief amount of time. Filip saw him, barely, so we can’t be sure that this contact knows their faces well. He doesn’t have frequent, prolonged contact with them, so unless he’s  _very_  good with faces the ruse might work long enough to lure him into a short conversation in the cave and turn the tables in our favor. One way in, one way out, and if you’re blocking that then there’s nowhere for him to run. I draw him in to provide proof of our deaths and then we have all the time in the world to chat with him. There aren’t many aspects of this that we have control over, but I don’t think it’s a half bad plan…”

* * *

 

He watches her hands, listening to her and nodding. “No, I wasn’t thinking of a direct ambush, either. More of arriving early and setting the stage, so to speak, in our favor.”

When she unlaces her fingers and shifts them to her lap, his line of sight is interrupted and he lifts his eyes to her face again. He either can’t seem to focus on anything for very long, or he’s focusing too long on something else. Like her hands.

“I don’t think we should attempt any sort of true farce–I fully intend to make the drop on this contact and extract all the information he knows. You impersonating your would-be assassin would really only be for a few minutes, at best–more a momentary distraction for me to move in than anything else.” 

Years of training and a cautious nature makes him not speak either Filip or Leah’s name. He knows better than to risk someone overhearing them talking about either of them, and perhaps connecting them in some ill manner to either of their sudden disappearances. Especially in Leah’s case. While there’s not proof that there was anyone else who was working in some way for Septimus, neither is there proof that there wasn’t, and Maretus doesn’t like to take chances when it comes to things like assassination attempts.

Shaking his head, he goes on. “I don’t know how often or not they actually met with the contact, or if they even met at all. He said he was to leave a message with the success or failure of the attempt behind a loose stone.” He drums his fingers against the side of his ale mug. “This could make things a bit trickier with timing, as we wouldn’t know exactly when the message would be picked up.”

Lifting his hand from his mug to rub at his chin through the thickness of his beard, Maretus considers the options. They would have to take a gamble sooner or later about this. “I think since the assassins both attempted the same day, it’d be somewhat safe to assume that they were to report back at a similar time. I doubt that they would get in contact with one another beforehand, rather both were probably instructed the same, to leave a message at a designated place and time. I would imagine that their contact would be there soon after to pick up the messages of confirmation of our deaths, though whether immediately after or a day or several days after, it’s impossible to tell.” He taps a finger just below his lip in thought. “Though being in a cave rather than in a secure location protected more from the elements, I can’t imagine it would be too long after.”

There are too many variables for his liking, too many possibilities unknown to them, and he doesn’t like it. But, then again, he’d been trained the bulk of his life to deal with such situations, and so partitions viable and unviable options from one another and sifts through several possibly plans they could take. He’s as distracted as Vanora, though each for very different reasons. Maretus, for now, is glad for the distraction of focusing on this. It also makes him realize that while he’s enjoyed the various escort and guard jobs he’s taken on since leaving his old position, he actually  _misses_  doing more strategic tasks of this very nature that he had tackled while still in the Legion. The realization catching him by surprise, he pauses in thought to take a drink of his ale. Yet another thing to dissect later, when–if–he decided to take the time to do so.

* * *

 

Arriving early to prepare and ensure they had the upper hand was the only logical choice. The more they could do to control the situation the better it would play out. There was only so much to be done, but with two of them and one contact they were automatically at least advantaged in numbers. Maretus was incredibly capable and, if pushed, Vanora was perfectly able to do her part physically. A little jolt of lightning went a long way when it came to people trying to run away. One concentrated bolt and bam–stunned and frozen in place, at least for a little while. Too much energy and they’d just get fried.

Having one way in and out of the cave also presented the possibility of giving them the upper hand. Although it could always backfire and become a problem for them, ideally it would help. If Vanora was inside, distracting the contact for a brief minute or two, Maretus would have plenty of time to block off the exit and box the contact in. Then voila, they would all have a nice cozy chat and get the answers the two of them needed. Hopefully, this contact would confirm everything they knew and fill in the blanks regarding his ties to Septimus and the plans of her distant cousin.

“I believe your friend mentioned that they’d met at least once, but only very briefly–enough to know the other person was a male, but in the dark of the cave he couldn’t make out any features. Hardly enough to help, but at least we know it should be a man.”

Stifling a yawn Vanora realizes just how tired she is. The past few days have been exhausting, not physically but emotionally. She simply isn’t used to having so much emotional stress. People were never allowed to be close enough to affect her so much, and she wishes that a good night sleep would fix it all and make it better. It’s a nice little fantasy.

“We could always take an emergency trip down the mountain,” she suggests, offering up the next idea that comes to mind, “I’m sure there are some herbs I could misplace. Then we’d have more than enough time to wait around without anyone worrying where we’d gone off to.”

It wasn’t the greatest excuse to be gone for a chunk of time, but the two of them had done the exact same thing before which made it more believable from Vanora’s standpoint. Who would care much if she decided to spend the day ‘getting herbs’ with Maretus? She could easily take the herbs that she would usually get at sea level directly from the stockroom, and then when all was said and done return with them once more. It was a possibility. Although sitting around for what could likely be a few hours wasn’t the most appealing thing, particularly with the lingering tension between her and Maretus coupled with all the time that might lead to talking, their absence wouldn’t be so conspicuous if they had a cover story.

Tucking a few aberrant stray hairs behind her ear Vanora’s marvels at just how much she would give to go to a party in Tevinter–so much could be learned from one evening. She could very well know the gist of Septimus’ plan and details about certain elements of it without so much as speaking to him. If only it didn’t take so long to get word from Tevinter and then send questions back. How much easier it would be if they were already home. A Crow, or two if Vanora was feeling particularly paranoid, would handle it all and the entire issue would disappear. But it’s hardly relevant now, more daydreaming, and it’s another clear sign that everything really is wearing on her.

* * *

 

It is a good idea, and the more Maretus thinks on it, the more he likes it. He nods his agreement. “Yes, that is actually quite a good idea–I hadn’t thought about that, but it fits the time frame perfectly. I don’t expect this contact to take more than a few day to pick up any messages, and a trip down the mountain could take anywhere from three to four days. So long as you can suffer camping out along the road for a few nights, that should be the right amount of time needed to assess the location and prepare whatever we need to, and then wait until we can act.”

In all honesty, he is impressed Vanora came up with that idea, not because he didn’t expect it of her, but more that she had come up with the perfect plan when it hadn’t even occurred to him. It is, he supposed, why she is an altus and he a mere soporati.

The instant he has the bitter thought, he bites back a grimace at himself for allowing it the room among everything else. It wasn’t a fair thing to think of her–it’s not her fault she was born the way she is anymore than it was his. Of course she was as quick mentally, if not more, than he. It was what she was groomed for all her life, whereas he had to overcome several odds for the chance to hone his skills at it.

Forcing himself to turn the thought in on itself, he considered: if one of them alone was a force to be reckoned with, together he imagined they would be considerably formidable for anyone to deal with. Now that thought brings a twinge of a smile to his lips.

Resting his elbows against the table, Maretus finds her gaze again with his own, unable now to stop the sharp little grin on his face. “I almost feel sorry for Septimus,” he says, voice subdued in direct contrast to the keenness of his smile. “He really has no idea the dangerous alliance he’s nurtured between us despite all his efforts otherwise.”

* * *

 

Vanora is pleased that Maretus takes to the idea so quickly. It’s simple and straightforward and, even better, entirely believable. After surviving a life-threatening trip together it made sense that Vanora would seek out Maretus as her companion once more. They have more than enough time to meet Septimus’ little friend here in the South. No guessing at times needed when they can spend a few days laying in wait. Maretus’ comment draws forth a smirk and Vanora nods.  _Almost_.

“He won’t realize what a horrible mistake he’s made until it’s too late. When you poke at the fire unguarded you’re bound to get burned.”

The two of them call it a night once they’ve smoothed out a few more details regarding their departure. They would leave the morning after next before dawn. It gave them enough time to explain their absence and prepare their provisions. Not to mention the extra blankets that Vanora was keen on tracking down. She was more than willing to sleep out in the elements, but freezing to death outside wasn’t something she was keen on.

Before going to bed Vanora snuck into the supply room, rummaging through the carefully organized supplies and pulling out the herbs she purchased in town. They weren’t used that frequently, but whenever she needed them it was usually a dire situation. Not wanting to draw too much attention she leaves a few sprigs of each–more plausible to have missed how low they were running than to not notice they were completely out of stock. The herbs are brought upstairs with her and wrapped carefully the way that she receives them from the man down the mountain. Slipping them into her desk she sets aside some items as she gets ready for bed. When she finally falls asleep it’s much later than she usually heads off.

It seems to her that daylight comes just a touch too soon. She doesn’t remember what decisions have been made right off the bat. It isn’t until she’s getting dressed that she catches sight of the two sets of clothes she’s put aside. Ah yes, there was much to get done today. Dressing quickly she makes her bed, but, thinking better of it, folds up her heavy blanket and sets it beside her clothes to bring with. She can take time to get the rest of her things together later in the day once she’s informed her staff that she’ll be leaving tomorrow morning for a supply run. Hurrying downstairs, pinning up her braid as she walks, Vanora finds the healers up to nothing in particular. Things are quiet now, the only wounds coming from training or accidents. Mostly they only have sick people in the beds, some with colds while others have less easily treated ailments.

Vanora waits until noon to mention her departure. The healers are gathering their things to head out for food but Vanora stops them at the door. Her explanation is brief, promising she won’t keep them from their food too long, and she tells them that she shouldn’t be longer than four days. It all depends on the weather and how tired she ends up. They could all understand how taxing a trip to and from Skyhold could be. Those who hadn’t come from Haven still had to make it up the mountain somehow. Nobody seems suspicious and many of them wish her luck on their way out. One of the girls even offers to finish up Vanora’s chores for the day so that the older woman could prepare better. Really, it goes as smoothly as she could ever imagine.

Strange as it feels they don’t meet for dinner, which, given the past few days, shouldn’t seem odd to anyone who notices them. They hadn’t exactly been as chummy as usual. It gives Vanora the time she needs to finish the very last of her packing. The clothes, blankets, and provisions she’s gotten from the kitchens are all packed up. She had even managed to find two spare blankets so that she could ensure she stays as warm as possible. Pleased with her overall progress in such a short period of time she sets to her last task–assembling an emergency kit of sorts. The basics are in her bag already, bandages, elfroot poultice, a sewing kit and a few other tidbits are all packed away. A few less common pieces have to be added in, just in case. Something stronger to help with pain and a few antidotes to help deal with frequently used poisons. Vanora isn’t sure what sort of weaponry this person had in their arsenal but she isn’t about to take chances.

When she is sure that everything she needs is packed and ready to go Vanora goes to bed. Unlike last night she manages to fall asleep earlier than usual. Well before the sun rises she is awake again, dressing as warmly as she can and trading in a dress for trousers. If she’s going to be running around and riding then she won’t be doing so in a dress. Although there are certainly soldiers on patrol it seems as though all of the Inquisition is asleep. The stablehands had been given notice that she and Maretus would be leaving early and they had left out the saddles and tack along with a blanket for each horse. Vanora already knows where she needs to go, walking down the row of horses lined up in their stalls. Almost at the end of the stables is the horse she’s ridden since just before she’d arrived. It wasn’t hers, but she liked to imagine that it is. The jet black Friesian huffs, steam pouring from his nostrils. He knows that it’s time to go.

Just as she had taken great care in packing her bags so does she in saddling up. Everything is double checked before her packs are placed over her horse’s back. When she hears footsteps she pauses, one hand on the reigns and the other stroking the horse’s flank. A moment later she catches sight of Maretus and nods, smiling faintly as she turns her attention back to the horse.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, patting her horse’s flank before turning fully to Maretus, “Ready for a nice, cool ride?”

* * *

 

It’s a simple thing to set about his absence–Vanora is the head healer, and as much as Maretus reports to Commander Cullen, if Vanora says that she needs a four-day trip down the mountain to procure more herbs that couldn’t be grown at this altitude, she would never be denied.

If the Commander thought there was anything strange about the recent slew of Maretus taking time from his duties, he kept his own council about it. The breaks have not been not back-to-back, of course, but time has seemed so compressed lately, ever since that letter arrived, that Maretus can not suppress the twinge of guilt he feels at shirking his duties yet again for this. He knows he isn’t exactly an integral part of the Inquisition, but he does his part and feels he is doing some good to help; he finds himself regretting the fact that he is spinning lies to a man just like himself–a good soldier, a good commander, and a better man than he.

He hopes that they would be soon done dealing with Septimus and anyone he’d sent against them. The Inquisition is led by good people, and all this skulking around behind their backs leaves a bad taste in his mouth. Not to mention what they might think if they found out.

Which leads to another line of questions Maretus rolls over in his mind as he goes through his auxiliary room, re-equipping for the upcoming journey. There is no way the Spymaster doesn’t know at the very least about something going on with him and Vanora. She may not know Vanora’s true identity, though even that Maretus does not put beyond her ability to find out, but she has to know something was up. If she wouldn’t have suspected, he probably triggered interest when he had stupidly gone to Dorian, all that time ago, fancying that he might investigate himself. He winces at the memory. He is no infiltrator, that much was made painfully clear then.

Letting out a breath, Maretus sets the quiver of arrows in his hands back down. He’d mucked things up, time and again throughout this whole debacle, and it isn’t even over yet. Gaze falling over the array of weapons and bits of armor, he shakes his head. He’d over-prepared embarrassingly the first time trying to deal with an assassin, and he will not make the mistake again.

Leaving the room empty-handed, Maretus walks back out to his main sitting area and stands for a while in the middle, caught up in thought. He left the note where Filip described with the lie that he’d been killed with the poison blades as instructed, and if Filip was telling the truth, a reply with instructions on a time to meet would be there by late tomorrow night. That gives them enough time to prepare everything and stop by the drop point to pick it up and see what the next instructions are.

Following those thoughts, an idea forms. He won’t need to prepare much, after all–the poisoned blades are the key. Filip was given them to carry out the assassination, which means this intermediary supplied them. Whoever it is would know exactly what kind of poison–or at least the toxicity–that is on them.

Alone in his room, Maretus grins, finding the sheathed daggers in the desk drawer he locked them in and lifts them out. He isn’t proficient with dual blades, but unlike Filip, he has more than a passing knowledge of how to wield them. He slips them onto one of his belts. They will send the simultaneous messages that the assassination attempts were not only foiled but foiled completely, and that should the intermediary not cooperate, he will know exactly what sort of fate would be in store for him with the daggers in Maretus’ hands.

Satisfied with more details filling out this new focal point of an immediate plan, Maretus mulls over what sorts of questions they will need answers to. He’ll let Vanora take the lead; it is her cousin who set this all up, after all, and it is her arena. Maretus is her sword arm in this, her brute strength, and he is more than happy to simply be just that.

The next day passes by swiftly, making sure his soldiers are set up to drill and leaving a few of the more senior people to lead in his absence. It’s not a new occurrence, and all goes smoothly. When evening comes, he eats a light dinner while he finishes packing, and the last thing he does before retiring is lie out his armor and weaponry to cut down on readying time in the morning.

Pale light of early predawn creeps in thinly through his windows, waking his light sleep. His stomach was a bundle of nerves the night before, not from anxiety over what they will be setting out to do today, but rather from all the different threads of stages of plans he’s keeping hold of and trying to weave together. In the dark of night before he fell asleep,it felt a little like he was trying to build a bridge over a rising and rushing river while actively crossing over it. But, now that he’s slept and rested, Maretus’ stomach is settled and his mind calm. Part of commanding multiple troops is being able to not only juggle various different strategies, but also set them aside to focus on the matter at hand when the time comes.

So he washes his face and smooths back his hair, then dresses in his woolen tunic and thick pants, strapping on his leather armor once he was dressed. Sword belt and pouch belt followed, the latter newly adorned with the double sheath housing the poisoned daggers.

Shouldering his pack, Maretus heads to the stables where he finds Vanora already there with her black horse, wearing pants for once.

“Morning,” he greets her in return, calm but feeling the barest hum of adrenaline beneath his skin. He can handle it with no problem–it’s something normal for the morning of a mission.

As he put the tack on his horse, a roan mare, he speaks softly, voice carrying to Vanora in the pale light. “Are you ready to go? Any last minute business you need to take care of before we head out?”

* * *

 

They stand in silence while Maretus saddles up and prepares his horse. As he works Vanora’s hands do not remain idle, stroking over the muzzle and haunches of the horse before her. Her thoughts wander and she wonders how she had never found time to ride a horse before she left home. There were certainly horses her family owned, and yet she had never ridden a single one. Nobles in the South rode horses, but, then again, she had never seen a female altus in Tevinter doing such. Inappropriate, no doubt. Perhaps the Inquisition would allow her to take this horse when she departed…or perhaps she would just take it regardless. She needed some way to get home, and a horse seemed the only logical option.

Maretus’ words pull her out of her trailing thoughts. Back in the present she goes through the checklist she had made in her own head. Everything she could possibly need,  _they_  could possibly need, was in her pack. She’d checked and checked it again earlier. All her business in the tower was handled, and the herbs she “needed” had been wrapped carefully, placed in a small box, and tucked away into her pack. Glancing over to Maretus, his horse saddled and as ready as her own, Vanora shakes her head.

“No, everything has been taken care of, and all that I might need is packed. I am ready to depart whenever you are.”

Letting the horse out of his stall completely, Vanora lets her hands run through his mane, down his neck to his withers, and then pats his shoulder. Slipping her left foot into the stirrup she pulls herself up with a practiced ease and settles herself into the saddle. When she had first left home Vanora could barely get on a horse, much less ride one. But as each year passed she’d gotten more adept. Adept enough to saddle one, mount it, and then ride a decent amount of time. She’s certain Maretus is more technically skilled and can ride for a longer time, but at least she isn’t a burden. The horse beneath her huffs, turning around in a circle, clearly eager to leave. She can’t blame him for wanting to leave, to get out of his pen and move freely. While she waits for Maretus to finish checking over his gear and mount up, Vanora adjusts her cloak and digs out the gloves she’d brought along. Although Maretus had poked fun at her several times for her lack of gloves, Vanora had indeed secured a small collection for herself. Unfortunately, her line of work had ruined them all relatively quickly. Now they were all stained, some with herbs, some with blood, and most of them with a mix of both. The pair she slips her hands into are of the latter variety, another pair in her pack just in case. If they were going to be dealing with whoever it was helping to orchestrate the assassinations then Vanora might as well not ruin another pair of gloves with blood.

When Maretus is settled and ready the two depart the stables and head for the main gate. Assuming that Commander Cullen has passed on the message, and Vanora was certain he had, then the guards on duty should be aware that they would be heading out. In the dark of the early morning, it feels as though they might be stealing out at night, sneaking off to do Maker knows what. Unfortunately, it is an entirely apropo feeling. Vanora highly doubted that anyone in the Inquisition, save Leliana’s spies, snuck out of Skyhold so early with the intention to do something dangerous and subversive. The main gate comes into view faster than usual, the horses crossing the courtyard much faster than the two of them could walk. Holding her horse steady she stops far enough back that she can see the guards, letting Maretus take point. After all, they were more likely to know and listen to him than they would her.

* * *

 

Maretus swings up on the roan soon following Vanora mounting hers, and he urges the mare out of her stable and down through the courtyards with a nudge of his heels. With a silent exchange between them before they approached the gate proper, Maretus automatically takes over in the lead and walks the roan over to address the guards.

“Headed out, serrah?” the one on the left calls out.

Maretus leans forward a bit in his saddle to answer, leather creaking all around him. “Herb run down to the old man again. Shouldn’t be more than a few days.”

“Seems like you two just made a run,” the other remarks.

“We were ambushed last time, didn’t bring back as many supplies as usual,” is Maretus’ smooth reply. It’s even the truth.

“Here’s hoping that doesn’t happen again this time.” The first guard who’d spoken signals the other to get the gate moving. “Give a moment, we’ll get the gate open.”  
Resisting the urge to glance back at Vanora over his shoulder, Maretus is nothing but the picture of patience as the guards turn the windlass to steadily—but slowly—open the giant doors leading out of Skyhold. They don’t open them all the way, that would be a waste of time and effort, but enough for Maretus and Vanora to leave through a gap. Once outside, the doors creak and groan shut behind them, and now he does chance a look over to her.

She’s got her eyes trained ahead, out along the switchback path that winds its way down the mountain, but after a moment seems to sense his eyes on her and looks his way. He doesn’t say anything, but nods, and taps his heels to the mare’s underbelly to get her moving again. Vanora is close behind as he leads the way. They don’t speak much as they go, the wind cutting through many of the moments they might have shared a conversation, and so the little talk they do share is pared down significantly.

It takes the better part of the morning, with the sun rising leisurely above them and reflecting off the snowy slopes, but eventually Maretus leads them to the meeting place Filip described to them. When they arrive, the sun hasn’t yet fully reached its zenith in the sky, and Maretus dismounts at the mouth of the cave, taking his roan’s reigns in hand. Vanora follows suit, and they both lead in their horses, and the shelter from the whipping wind is a welcome one to both human and steed alike.

Once inside, Maretus rubs along the flanks and legs of his horse briskly. “We made good time,” he says as he works, “and despite the bite of the wind, it works in our favor. I’m not sure a single track in the snow would remain after some of those gusts.”  
When he finishes tending to his horse, he straightens and looks about the cave. It’s large and the walls rough, but he can’t tell just how deep it goes. The light from the mouth only spills in so far. Luckily, however, he came prepared for this, and sifts through a saddle back until he produces a thick torch, wrapping one end of it with an oily cloth. It only takes a few more moments with some flint before it catches on fire, and Maretus lifts it.

Casting a look back to Vanora, he says, “Mind the horses—I’ll get a look around to see how best to lay our trap for this evening.”

* * *

 

By the time the guards have opened the gates enough for the two riders to leave Vanora’s attention is focused far beyond the walls of Skyhold. There is unpleasant business ahead of them, and an even less pleasant ride before they reach their destination. What exactly awaits them at the end of their journey? Will there be answers to the font of questions? Having a clear-cut chain of communication that led directly to Septimus was preferable, though they had more than enough evidence to prove his guilt. Still, Vanora wouldn’t turn down irrefutable hard evidence. The more cards she had in her hand the better.

As her mind turns she gazes out before them, eyes focused on the road ahead of them. It isn’t a pleasant trip, and it’s so early that there is no sun above them to help provide some source of warmth. At least the horse is warm and she’s wrapped in plenty of layers. She feels eyes on her and blinks, glancing over to catch Maretus’ gaze. Neither of them speaks up, but her attention seems enough to spur Maretus onwards.

The ride is grueling as ever, the wind tearing into them every step of the way. Instead of focusing too much on the present, the chill, Vanora lets herself think beyond the present, beyond their looming encounter with the man tasked with overseeing their assassination. What lay beyond that? Septimus trying to have her killed wasn’t something that Vanora could tolerate, nor was it a thread she could ignore for long. Septimus never should have started this game, he should have left her and Maretus alone and find a way around them. Yet he’d struck the first blow. Vanora would be sure to strike the last.

When they finally arrive at the cave Vanora’s hands feel as though they’ve frozen shut around the reigns. The Friesian huffs, stamping his hooves against the frozen ground, eager for a respite as much as Vanora is. She releases the reigns and dismounts, flexing her hands to wake up her chilled fingers. A few moments later, when she’s certain that her fingers still function, she flips the reigns over the horse’s head and leads him into the cave. She almost sighs in relief when she steps inside, the stone walls protecting them from most of the wind. Rubbing down the sides of her horse she looks over her shoulder at Maretus as he speaks. He’s got a torch in hand already, prepared to head in and scope out the cavern.

“Right. Be careful, Maretus. No telling what might be deeper in.”

Vanora doubts there’s anything dangerous in here, but with the wind and cold there could be plenty of creatures hiding out in the cave. Better to be safe than sorry.

* * *

 

Her caution elicits a quick smile canted over his shoulder at her. “I will,” he assures her, then turns and walks deeper into the cave, taking great care to glance around at the walls and layout as he goes.

It yawns cool darkness before him, the flickering light of his torch throwing strange dancing shadows along the roughened walls. The wind howls distantly behind him, the cave’s mouth not quite the right size or shape to create a wind tunnel, so it just echoes off the stalagmites and stalactites. There’s no sound of water that reaches his ears, and Maretus finds himself idly wondering just what hollowed it out, if not the age-long persistence of water.

The path he follows narrows somewhat, though no claustrophobically so, winding back and forth a little before the ceiling starts to lower and the stone formations above his head and at his feet up meet more and more often in pillars columns, so thickly that he has a difficult time finding even ground to walk upon. Even his slightest footstep echoes here, stones from his walking sent scattering and clattering in the quiet dark.

Maretus isn’t quite sure what he’s looking for, nor does he want to venture too far down into the belly of the cave itself, and so loops back, threading a different way through the columns and noting the spaces and crevices almost as soon as he dismisses them. This isn’t a place for any kind of ambush–it was too treacherous, too dark. There were plenty of good spots to hide, but that didn’t exactly suit their purposes, either. No, better not to be caught in any kind of physical fight amid this stone forest of pillars and stalagmites.

He returns to the initial mouth of the cave where Vanora is tending to her friesian with the sketchy outlines of a plan in his mind.

Wedging the torch he carries in one of several pitted spots in the cave wall, he casts a critical eye toward the cave opening itself. It is far too big for him to block by himself, and he didn’t have any proper materials with him–or the time, for that matter–to construct any sort of hidden block that might be released at the proper time to cut off escape. Scratching at his beard, he slides his glance over to Vanora.

“I might have a few ideas on what we can do, but we have to make sure that the contact who comes can’t escape. Do you have anything in your… repertoire… that can prevent him from escaping once he’s in the cave itself? Some sort of barrier?”

  
Indicating with his head to the pits in the cave wall, he continues, “Some of those have cut a quasi-shelf into the wall itself, big enough for one of us to hide in. The other should to be waiting on the ground here, pretending to be one of the would-be assassins, until the contact is fully into the cave. If we can trap him in here, then the other can come out of hiding in ambush and hopefully overwhelm him quickly.” His eyes alight back on hers. “Then we can get some more answers.”


End file.
